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DEC. 1895 , 

PVBLISHED BY 

J.B.LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 

ENTERED AT PHILADELPHIA POST OFFICE 
AS SECOND CLASS MATTER 





1NC0TT5 

3VELSV 







hild^ 
nd I\ 


By 
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LiPPINCOTT’S series of 

Select Novels. 


12mo. Paper, 60 Cents. Cloth, $1.00. 


No. 151. A Third Person. 

By B. M. Croker. 

No. 150. The Sign of Four. 

By A. Conan Doyle. 

No. 149. “To Let.“ 

By B. M. Croker. 

No. 148. Aunt Johnnie. 

By John Strange Winter. 

No. 147. The Hoyden. 

By the “ Duchess. 
No. 146. Barbara Derin^ 

By Amelia Rives. 
No. 145. Broken Chords. 

By Mrs. George McClellan. 
No. 144. Was He the Other ? 

By Isobel Fitzroy. 
No. 143. But Men Must Work. 

By Rosa Nouchette Carey. 
No. 142. A North - Country 
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By M. Bhtham-Edwards. 
No. 141. One of the Bevans. 

By Mrs. Robert Jocelyn. 
No. X40. A Family Likeness. 

By B. M. Croker. 
No. 139. A Sister’s Sin. 

By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 
No. 138. Sir Godfrey’s Grand- 
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By Rosa Nouchette Carey. 
No. 137. A Big Stake. 

By Mrs. Robert Jocelyn. 
No. X36. For His Sake. 

By Mrs. Alexander. 
No. X25. A Daughter’s Heart. 

By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 
No. X34. Lady Patty. 

By the “Duchess." 
No. X33. Old Dacres’ Darling. 

By Annie Thomas. 
. - No. X3a. A Covenant with the 
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By Clara Lbmore. 
No. 13X. Corinthia Marazion. 

By Cecil Griffiths. 


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By John Strange Winter. 
No. 129. The New Mistress. 

By George Manville Fenn. 

No. 128. A Divided Duty. 

By Ida Lemon. 

No. 127. Drawn Blank. 

By Mrs. Robert Jocelyn. 

No. 126. riy Land of Beulah. 

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No. 124. Just Impediment. 

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No. 123. riary St. John. 

By Rosa N. Carey. 

No. 122. Quita. 

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No. X2I. A Little Irish GirL 

By the “ Duchess." 

No. 120. Two English Girls. 

By Mabel Hart 

No. X19. A Draught of Lethe. 

By Roy Tellet. 

No. 118. The Plunger. 

By Hawley Smart. 

No. 117. The Other flan’s Wife. 

By John Strange Winter. 

No. 116. A Homburg Beauty. 

By Mrs. Edward Kennard. 

No. 115. Jack’s Secret. 

By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 

No. X14. Heriot’s Choice. 

By Rosa N. Carey. 

No. 113. Two flasters. 

By B. M. Croker. 

No. 112. Disenchantment. An 

Every-Day Story. 

By F. Mabel Robinson. 

No. III. Pearl Powder. 

By Annie Edwardes. 


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MY CHILD AND I. 


A WOMAN’S STORY. 


BY 


FLOEENCE WAEDEN, 

AUTHOR OF 

“THE HOUSE ON THE MARSH,” “RALPH RYDER OF BRENT,” ETC 




** 0 my son Absalom, 0 Absalom, my son, my son I*' 



\ 






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Copyright, 1893, 

BY 

J. B. Lippincott Company. 


Electrotyped and Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U. 8. A. 


MY CHILD AND I. 


CHAPTER 1. 

A LARGE white house, in a beautiful garden, stables as 
extensive as and much more important than the house 
itself, and a big paddock beyond : all this shut in by a 
high wall, which kept us as well sheltered from the stare 
of our neighbours as my father’s profession kept us from 
their society. For he was a trainer of race-horses ; and 
association with the equine race has always been held to 
denote moral degradation. Indeed, I think the people 
who lived near Ardernes Court, who were particularly 
sedate and humdrum in their lives, would have been ter- 
ribly scandalized if they had witnessed the gaiety and 
enjoj^ment of those within the high walls. 

Not that the scenes which took place there were in 
themselves shocking; but a constant succession of lively 
visitors, with whom every trifle was the subject of laugh- 
ter, light music, and card-playing into the small hours 
of the morning, easily became the basis of rumours that 
Ardernes Court was a very den of infamy. 

Of the gaiety I myself saw but little. The house was 
large enough for a whole wing to be given up almost 
entirely to me and my governess, a pleasant lady, no 
longer young, who, when she had superintended my re- 
tiring to rest, used to go down into the drawing-room, 
being a brilliant musiciatj, and play the piano for the en- 
tertainment of the visitors. But she had never anything 
to tell me next day about the guests. I remember that 
sometimes, when I was old enough to become curious, I 
used to get out of bed and steal in my night-gown along 
the corridor, go through the door which shut off our 
rooms from the body of the house, and, reaching the head 
of the principal staircase, used to crouch down and take 

3 


4 


MY CHILD AND L 


a vivid interest in what little I could see of what went on 
down-stairs. 

I could hear the music in the drawing-room, the laugh- 
ter in the dining-room, and see the men-servants go in 
and out with the dishes and plates. And then the ladies 
would come out, when there were any, always very much 
alike, I thought, with the same coloured light hair and 
very bright complexions; or, if there were no ladies 
among the guests, my mother would go by herself to 
the drawing room. And always, whether she was alone 
or not, I was struck afresh by my mother’s grace of bear- 
ing and stately beauty, and asked myself bitterly why I 
had not inherited her beautiful glossy black hair and long, 
soft dark eyes. 

I doubt whether this question would have come spon- 
taneously into my childish mind ; but the absence of any 
likeness to herself in her daughter and only child was a 
source of vexation to my mother which she did not keep 
to herself. I was large-boned, awkward, pale, freckled, 
and sandy, and it was certainly not for my good looks 
that my father idolized me as he did. I don’t know 
whether he shared his wife’s disappointment at having 
no son, but if so, he never let me know it; while my 
mother never even looked at me, after I became old 
enough to understand, without my seeing in her eyes a 
tacit reproach for my sex. So little did I see of her, 
in fact, that her death, when I was twelve years old, 
seemed to make hardly any difference in my life. 

For some months, while she had lain ill, I had seen 
less of her than ever. She used to say that my “ stealthy 
way of creeping about the room” — the unhappy result 
of my endeavours to be quiet and gentle — ‘‘got upon 
her nerves.” So I was banished from her sight, taking 
my sentence meekly enough but with tears ; and when 
I saw her lying dead, her beautiful face looked no colder 
than it had looked in life to me. 

I have said that at first there was little difference in 
my life. But when my father had recovered from the 
shock of his loss, he had me with him even more than 
before. I was even introduced to a select few of his 
friends and clients, among whom one, whose name was 
Lord Wallinghurst, soon became a special favourite with 
me, as he was with everybqdy. 


MV CHILD AND 1. 


5 


A man still in the prime of life, neither tall nor hand- 
some, but with a distinction of manner and a good- 
humoured ease which I have never seen since in the 
same happy combination. Lord Wallinghurst had reached 
middle age without losing any of the attractions of youth. 
As for me, I loved him only less than I did my father ; and 
he returned my affection sincerely, and never failed when 
he visited Ardernes Court, where he kept his race-horses 
in training, to ask for his little sweetheart Perdita. 

Her mother was wrong, Farbrace,” I remember his 
saying to my father one evening, when, after dining to- 
gether, the two gentlemen had sent for me to give me 
fruit at dessert. “ She was altogether wrong. Perdita’s 
going to grow up a beauty; aren’t you, Perdita?” 

The suggestion, contradicting as it did all the prophe- 
cies which had ever been made concerning me, took me 
by surprise. I laughed and hung my head foolishly. 
My father stroked my head with a caressing hand. 

“ She’s a beauty already, I think,” said he. 

“ And I too. Isn’t she my sweetheart ?” went on Lord 
Wallinghurst. “ But I mean that she will be a beauty 
for the photographers, and that all the most dashing 
young fellows of her time — not ours, mind — will go mad 
about her. You and I will be old fogeys then, and we 
shall have to take a back seat, for she won’t have any 
time to give to us then.” 

Oh, yes, she will,” I said, impulsively. I shall 
never, never like any one as much as I do you and papa, 
and I should never care for any one who was not like 
you and like him.” 

Both the gentlemen laughed, evidently pleased by my 
sincerity. For, indeed, this was a point upon which I 
had quietly made up my mind long ago. 

“ Now, here’s a chance for one of my sons,” cried Lord 
W all inghurst, carrying on the jest with great good humour. 
“ One is married already unluckily ; and being the eldest, 
he would have been the one most worthy of your choice. 
As for the second, he’s not handsome enough ; hasn’t 
even the modest good looks of his father.” 

“ Haven’t you a third son ?” asked I, not indeed with 
any anxiety to book a husband so far ahead, but because 
I had seen one day, inside Lord Wallinghurst’s watch, 
the portraits of a group of three boys. 

1 * 


6 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


The cloud which instantly passed over his face showed 
me at once that the question was an indiscreet one. He 
answered me gravely but kindly. 

‘‘ Yes, I have a third son, but he’s not good enough for 
you ; not good enough for anybody. He’s in Australia 
now, and I suppose he will die there,” he continued, 
turning to my father, to whom his succeeding remarks 
also were addressed. “ I wonder how it is that in our 
family there is, in each generation, a very good woman 
and a very bad man. I’m the sinner of my generation, 
and my unmarried sister is the saint. My youngest son 
succeeds to my position ; I wonder who will take my 
sister’s.” 

I listened to these words all but open-mouthed. At the 
end, as he turned to me again with one of those smiles 
of his which I, in common with every one else, found 
so charming, I could contain my astonishment no longer. 

“Oh, if you call yourself a wicked man, I think I 
should like your third son the best of the three,” I said. 

At which they both discomfited me by laughing out- 
right. 

When I returned to my governess my head was so 
full of the strange things that I had heard that I could 
not forbear indulging in some comments on them to Miss 
Greatorex. To my surprise, there was something in her 
face when I mentioned Lord Wallinghurst’s opinion of 
himself which told me that his own view of his character 
was a general one. To me this discovery was confusing, 
shocking. I had been taught that wicked people were 
to be avoided ; but how was it to be done if they bore no 
distinguishing mark save an unusually sweet smile and 
particular kindness of manner? Miss Greatorex, who 
was growing elderly and acid, would, I felt, not be the 
person to answer the question satisfactorily. She dis- 
approved highly of the new regime under which my seclu- 
sion was less conventual than in my mother’s lifetime. 
In her opinion “ the gentlemen put ideas into my head.” 
And I gathered that ideas were the wrong sort of 
contents for a young and feminine mind. 

I saw Lord Wallinghurst many times after that, and 
never without being disturbed by fresh ponderings of 
those wonderful problems : how it was that he seemed 
so good when he was really so wicked? and whether 


MY CHILD AND L 


7 


niceness and wickedness always went together in this 
confusing way ? 

Meanwhile 1 learned to ride, which my mother would 
never let me do, since she herself had been forced by ill- 
health to give up that once favourite exercise of hers. 
It was the only thing I could do really well ; and my 
father, who was exceedingly proud of my success in this 
accomplishment, never lost an opportunity of showing 
me off. I had a beautiful little chestnut mare of my own, 
and at fourteen, long before my prophesied beauty had 
become apparent in any other situation, I already looked 
well on horseback. I was by this time old enough to 
notice signs and expressions on the faces of those about 
me which a year or two before would have escaped my 
notice. I observed that on Lord Wallinghurst’s still 
frequent visits both he and my father were less cheerful 
and good-humoured than they had been before, and that, 
while both drinking more wine, they became more silent 
instead of more lively as the evening went on. 

In the year that I was fifteen I understood that there 
was great anxiety in the minds of both about the coming 
Derby. A horse belonging to Lord Wallinghurst and 
trained by my father was the favourite, and I soon 
learned that upon the success or non-success of that ani- 
mal there depended great things. I used now to accom- 
pany them sometimes on their visits to the stables, to 
me an enchanted place, which always seemed to me 
cleaner and sweeter and more interesting than any other 
corner of the earth with which I was acquainted. Little 
as I knew about racing matters, for about them my father 
never gave me any information, I became conscious that 
it was a great honour for me to be present when Fabri- 
cius was stripped for the inspection of his owner and 
trainer; and as the eventful Wednesday approached, I 
really think that my excitement over the great race 
must have been almost as great as theirs. 

So eager was I to learn whether Fabricius had won 
the Derby that I, hot being permitted to be present my- 
self on the Downs, extracted from my father a promise 
to telegraph to me at once “that Fabricius had won.” 
Three o’clock came, half-past three, four. I became sick 
with suspense and anxiety. At last I put on my hat, 
and, evading my governess, slipped through a side-door 


8 


MY CHILD AND L 


in the garden wall out into the road to learn the result 
of the race from the passers-by, some of whom were al- 
ready returning from Epsom. There was no need for 
me to ask a question. “ Corncrake ! Corncrake !” was 
passed from mouth to mouth. I burst into tears, and 
crept back into the house, cut to the heart, though I did 
not know what the full meaning of the catastrophe was 
to my two dearest friends on earth. 

I did not see my father that day ; they would not let 
me. But on the following morning, having possessed 
myself of a newspaper to read the full details of the 
favourite’s defeat, a heading, to me full of terrible news, 
caught my eye. 


CHAPTEE II. 

The shock was an appalling one. The earl, who had 
been in serious difficulties for some time, had hoped to 
retrieve his position by plunging heavily on the Derby, 
for which his horse Fabricius had been a hot favourite. 
I remember now how widely it was said that Fabricius 
was the best horse of his year after all, and that Corn- 
crake’s victory was a fluke, how accounted for I forget 
now. I suppose this is always said on such occasions, 
but I believed it with all my soul, and I grieved over 
the defeat of the beautiful creature I had admired 
so much and been so much afraid of, not only for his 
master’s sake but for his own. 

There were other fortunes besides that of poor Lord 
Wallinghurst involved in the defeat of Fabricius. I 
believe my father himself had a heavy money interest 
in the race ; but more than this, the ruin and death 
of his principal patron, who was his debtor to a large 
amount, affected him severely. From that day the for- 
tunes of Ardernes began to decline. 

Gradually as the change came about, I felt our descent 
unmistakably, noting in particular the furtive, anxious 
eyes, the harassed, worried look which soon became 
habitual on my father’s face. He was kind to me to the 
last, and to the last, when retrenchment set in, he refused 
to sell my little mare, even when I begged him to do so. 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


9 


saying that I no longer cared to ride. He smiled very 
sadly when I told him this innocent little untruth, and 
told me to enjoy myself while I could. It was the only 
warning that his lips ever gave me of the awful change 
which was soon to come. I don’t know whether he 
guessed himself how it would end. One day in Sep- 
tember he was out shooting with some friends, when, in 
getting through a hedge, his gun went off, and he was 
found lying on the ground, bleeding to death. He only 
lived long enough to recognise the friend who found him. 

It was an accident, it was said, and a common one 
enough. But I never believed it. How could I, when I 
had seen his face that morning, felt that there was some^ 
thing unusual in his farewell kiss, and heard a strange 
ring in his voice as he bade me good-bye ? 

I was stunned by the blow ; and long before I had 
recovered from it there came upon my life such sudden 
and violent changes that I seemed to lose my old identity 
altogether. Surely it was not I, Perdita Farbrace, who 
found herself a month later in a dingy little back bed- 
room on the top floor of a small hotel in a street off the 
Strand? Broken down by the misfortunes which had 
fallen upon me so suddenly, I used to sit for hours 
shivering in the dingy little room, while the tears rolled 
unceasingly down my face, and I told myself again and 
again that the girl who used to live at beautiful Ardernes 
Court, with every comfort and every pleasure a loving 
father could provide, was not I. 

My poor father had died so deeply in debt that there 
was absolutely nothing left for me; so the only near 
relation I had, my mother’s sister, had been obliged to 
come forward and offer me a shelter. It was, however, 
given with less heartiness than I thought I had a right 
to expect. For Mrs. Morgan, my aunt, had received 
much kindness of a practical sort from her sister’s hus- 
band. I nourished a little secret resentment against her 
for the persistent way in which, when she used to visit 
Ardernes Court in her own husband’s lifetime, she had 
persistently advised that I should be sent away to school, 
instead of being brought up “ in such an absurd way” at 
home. Luckily for me, my father’s objections and my 
mother s indifference had successfully opposed her plans 
for my welfare. When her husband died, Mrs. Morgan 


10 


MY CHILD AND L 


had found herself very scantily provided for, her own 
extravagance having combined with his to this end. She 
had, however, shown great energy, and with the liberal 
and prompt assistance of my father, secured a lease of 
the gloomy building to which she afterwards took me, 
and set me up in business as the manager of a private 
hotel. 

I had seen little of my aunt since the days when she 
used to come, beautifully dressed and brilliant of manner, 
to Ardernes Court. Therefore it was with a shock of 
surprise that I found myself in a dingy, ill-lighted back 
room on the ground-floor of the hotel near the Strand, 
face to face with an undistinguished-looking woman in a 
brown stuff gown, who, with a water-bottle in one hand, 
was engaged in “ letting down” the milk for some hap- 
less customer’s tea ! 

“Oh, aunt!” I foolishly exclaimed, in horror, “how 
can you !” 

“ Must be done, my dear,” she answered, lightly. “ It’s 
one of the duties I shall depute to you very soon. So 
be prepared.” 

She was not unkind to me, hut she was certainly not 
sorry to have the chance of “ taking me down,” as she 
called it, and of letting me know that I had been absurdly 
spoilt and that the time had come for me to suffer for it. 
I soon found, in fact she told me, that I was expected to 
“ make myself useful,” to become, as I resentfully told 
myself, a kind of handy drudge. Then it was that I 
first discovered that I had a “character.” My father 
had lent her a large sum of money, only a small portion 
of which had been repaid at the time of his death. 
Although an honest and honourable specimen of her 
type of womanhood, my aunt chose to consider that in 
taking charge of her creditor’s daughter she was doing 
much more than discharging the debt, she was making 
a sacrifice. And in order that the bargain might not, 
according to her estimation, be too one-sided, she had 
decided that I was to be a sort of assistant house-maid, 
under housekeeper, and runner of errands. Then, to the 
surprise of both of us, I at once made a firm stand. I 
would not make beds ; I would not dust rooms ; I would 
not go out with a big black bag on my arm to bring 
home the butter. Now I see that I was foolish not to 


MY CHILD AND L 


11 


have tried, as my poor performances would probably 
have soon disqualified me for these distasteful duties ; 
but I was only sixteen, and still smarting from the great 
change I had so lately suffered, and from grief at a loss 
which I felt more instead of less as the time went on. 

I remember that 1 caught sight of our two figures in 
the large glass which stood over the mantel-piece of her 
sitting-room as I made my protest. I remember seeing 
my very tall, gawky, stooping figure, and a face dead 
white with excitement above it, shaking with agitation ; 
and the much shorter, much stouter form of my aunt, 
with her hard but still handsome face, as stolid and rigid 
as mine was limp and flexible. 

You won't do this, and you won't do that ! Do you 
know to whom you’re speaking? Do you know that 
you’re dependent on me for every mouthful you eat, and 
that if I liked I could turn you out to-morrow ?” cried 
my aunt, in a loud, strident voice, looking at me with 
cold, steely grey-green eyes. 

“ I don’t think you can, aunt,” I remember answer- 
ing, in a shaky voice. “ If you do, it’s not my fault. I 
will mend the linen, keep accounts, do anything that I 
can do ; but I’ve not been brought up to do a servant’s 
work, and I can’t do it, and I don’t think you ought to 
ask me to try.” 

This was my aunt’s opportunity, the first she had 
really had, for letting loose upon me her long pent-up 
wrath at the way in which I had been brought up. 

“ There !” she exclaimed, triumphantly, “ that’s the 
result of your father’s beautiful system of bringing you 
up. Here’s the proof of what I was always saying to 
him. Let her go to a good school, I’ve said to him a 
thousand times, where they bring girls up usefully, and 
teach them to cook and to sew and to be a help in a 
house, instead of just a useless burden.” 

‘‘ An industrial school, I suppose you meant,” I rashly 
ventured. 

My aunt drew herself up and glared at me. 

“ Don’t dare to answer me, you lazy, impudent girl,” 
she said, harshly. ‘‘ The idea of 3"Our thinking yourself 
too good for anything I choose to tell you to do ! Do 
you think I can afford to keep 3^ou living here in idle- 
ness while I myself am slaving from morning till night ? 


12 


MY CHILD AND L 


Perhaps you think you do me so much honour by living 
here that the sight of your sallow face and round back 
ought to be pleasure enough ?” 

I was too angry to cry, miserable as her words made 
me. I said, in a low voice, — 

“ No, 1 don’t think that. I’m ready to earn my own 
living; I want to. But it must be at something that 1 
can do.” 

“ There isn’t anything you can do !” broke in my aunt, 
contemptuously. 

But I went on : 

“ They used to say I had a taste, a talent, for drawing.” 

Pshaw !” said my aunt. 

“ If I could study a little while at South Kensington 
I might be able to earn my living as a teacher of 
drawing.” 

“ Drawing ? Eubbish !” 

“I will go and see Mr. Eobertson, the lawyer who 
managed poor papa’s aifairs, to-morrow. I will ask him 
to arrange with you that you shall pay me a small sum 
every week out of the money you owed poor papa, 
and ” 

My aunt’s face changed. She had been ignorant how 
much I knew, and this discovery alarmed her while it 
made her angrier than ever. For while one person the 
more in an establishment like hers makes no appreciable 
difference in the weekly expenses, it was inconvenient 
for her to pay out a definite sum on a definite day, 
especially as the solicitor was not likely to let her off too 
easily, knowing her obligations. In a harsh tone she 
told me to go to my room, a command which I obeyed 
with as much promptitude as meekness. My next meal 
she sent up to me, as an intimation, I suj^pose, that 1 
had disgraced myself too deeply to enter her presence. 
But before night came she sent for me, and in a cold 
voice, while she looked at me with a hard and disagree- 
able expression, she told me that I could begin to study 
at South Kensington the following week if I liked, and 
that I could live on with her at the hotel as before. 

Full of the sanguine belief that in a very short time I 
should be able to earn my own living in the way I had 
chosen, I accepted the offer with gratitude, and passed 
the evening darning table-linen with laborious neatness. 


MV CHILD AND L 


13 


I passed the preliminary trial of my abilities easily 
enough, and entered the schools elated with my success. 
A very short experience, however, of the busy battalions 
of workers of all ages within the schools who ground 
away from year’s end to year's end and never got any 
nearer to excellence than they had been at the beginning, 
was sufficient to dash my ardour. However, although I 
began to be conscious of how little practical value that 
“ talent for drawing” was which had been so much in- 
sisted upon at home, I laboured valiantly on in the 
middle ranks, between those who did very well and 
those who did very badly. It was too far to go back to 
the Strand for my mid-day meal, so I lunched very 
lightly in the big museum refreshment-room, and then 
wandered about the galleries by way of relaxation before 
recommencing work. 

It was during this pause in the labours of the day 
that the hordes of male and female students saw and 
criticised each other with the surface antagonism and 
latent attraction customary at such meetings of the 
young of the two sexes. Among the various types of 
womanhood there I was reckoned among the prudishly 
discreet, my almost conventual education having fos- 
tered in me both shyness and pride, the basis of femi- 
nine prudence. But before long I saw, I was always 
seeing, about the galleries a face which attracted me, a 
face at which I could not look without an involuntary 
blush. It was not only that the owner of the face 
looked at me with undisguised admiration : for there 
was at the time I speak of a devout cult at South Ken- 
sington of the immature and the angular, by which I 
profited to the extent of being considered quite a beauty. 
The man’s face had for me an attractiveness, a charm I 
could not well explain, except by a feeling that it re- 
minded me of something or some one pleasant whom I 
had known. 

It was not a handsome face, nor had it the attraction 
of youth or freshness. It was the worn, lined, sun-dried 
face of a man prematurely aged by travel and exposure, 
the face of a man who had in every sense “ lived hard.” 
He was not a student : he was believed to be an illus- 
trator of books and newspapers who visited the museum 
occasionally for the purposes of his craft. It was only 

2 


14 


MY CHILD AND L 


since 1 had been in the schools, so my observant com- 
panions told me, that his occasional visits had become 
constant. 

Although I never spoke to him nor he to me, although 
I carefully avoided meeting his eyes, 1 soon found that 
the galleries and schools were haunted by the worn, 
brown face. I saw it on the paper before me while I 
drew ; the expectation of meeting it made every walk 
through the galleries an adventure. At last his oppor- 
tunity came, as it was bound to do. 

I was in the reading-room, intent upon a book I was 
studying on Greek art, when, looking about for my 
pencil to make a note with, I found that I had dropped 
it. Somebody glided from a seat at a table behind me, 
and I heard a voice, a most pleasant voice, lowered to 
the discreet pitch observed in the reading room: 

I picked up this pencil from the floor, and I have 
been waiting to see some one hunt for a pencil. You 
have lost yours : is this it ?” 

I had cast one shy glance up, knowing what face it 
was that I should see, and finding it more attractive in 
speech than in repose. Then I looked at the pencil he 
held in his hand, and took it shyly. 

“ Yes, it is mine.” 

As it turned in my hand I saw that my own name, 
Perdita, had been delicately carved in the cedar wood. 
I glanced up again, with a hot blush. 

“ If you lose it again it will be more easy to identify,” 
said he. 

And he glided back into his seat, leaving me curiously 
perturbed and unable to fix my attention again on Greek 
art for that day. 

My studies led me to the National Gallery. He was 
there. The second time this happened I found, on at- 
tempting to leave the building, that a smart shower of 
rain was falling. I had no umbrella, so I waited. 
Glancing round me as I stood in the entrance-hall, 1 
saw my “bronzed traveller” coming out through the 
turnstile. A sort of terror seized me, perhaps an in- 
tuition of what he would do. So I ran down the steps 
out into the rain, choosing what I considered the less of 
two evils. But at the bottom of the steps he overtook 
me. 


MY CHILD AND L 


15 


“ You have no umbrella : pray let me shelter you with 
mine. As fellow-worshipers at the shrine of Art we 
may do so much, may we not ?” 

1 was shy, unwilling, and distressed. But there was 
something in his quiet, well-bred manner which atforded 
me such a sense of pleasure and relief from the tones I 
heard at the hotel and the flippant slip-slop chatter of 
the students at the schools that I suffered myself to be 
persuaded to walk with him along the Strand. He said 
very little ; indeed, the crowd was too great and col- 
lisions with other people’s umbrellas too frequent for 
talking to be easy. When we reached the corner of my 
street I stopped short, and, blushing very much, said, — 
Thank you, thank you very much. Good-after- 
noon.” 

“ Why won’t you let me go with you the rest of the 
way? Are 3 ’ou ashamed of jour shabby escort?” 

i glanced at his coat in surprise, and for the first 
time learnt that it was shabby. I got more red, and 
said, — 

“ No. I — I didn’t want you to know where I lived. 
I — I’m ashamed of living there. Because — because,” I 
stammered, ingenuously, ‘‘ you are not like the people I 
live among now.” 

He smiled at me in some amusement, but with pleasure 
too. 

“I understand, I think,” he said. “You are astonish- 
ingly discriminating for such a child. But you have 
apparently just failed to find out that, though 1 am 
possibly a gentleman, I am undoubtedly a scamp.” 

Here was the same puzzling problem which had teased 
me in my childhood presented over again. He saw the 
look of bewilderment on my face, and laughed. 

“ I have distressed 3 ’ou, I’m afraid. Forgive me. In 
consideration of the honesty of my confession, will you 
shake hands?” 

Very much agitated, I held out my hand without hesi- 
tation. He pressed it gently in his, looking up into my 
face, for I was taller than he, with a strange expression 
which moved me and made me blush with pleasure more 
than with shame. 

Then he went awixy, and I walked quicklj^ down the 
street. 


16 


MY CHILD AND I. 


Day after day passed, and I saw no more of him. 
For some time I tried to hide from myself how sorely I 
missed the sight of his face. I lost my interest in my 
work, I grew silent and despondent. Day after day my 
eyes searched every corner of the galleries in vain. 

Two months had passed, and I had begun to give up 
all hopes of seeing my mysteriously interesting friend 
again, when one evening, when I was on my knees in 
the little front room which my aunt called her office, hunt- 
ing in a box fora bill which she had mislaid, I was startled 
by a voice, the sound of which thrilled me through and 
through. I sat back on the floor to listen, and a moment 
later I heard my aunt come out of the back room, and 
my mysterious friend asked her if she had a room vacant, 
‘‘ a modest bachelor apartment, and not a palatial suite,” 
as he said. 

Then my aunt left him for a moment, and as she dis- 
appeared into the backroom the front door opened, and 
a gentleman, whom I recognised as a solicitor who some- 
times brought witnesses to stay at the hotel, entered. 
By this time I had risen, and, standing back in the as 
yet unlighted room, could see the two men through the 
little glass window without being seen by them. My 
mysterious friend turned round to make w^ay for the 
new comer, and as soon as he did so, both men started 
back. 

‘‘Good gracious!” exclaimed the solicitor, in a low 
voice, “ what are you doing here ? Don’t you know that 
if any one sees you it’ll be penal servitude ?” 

“ I know, and I don’t care,” returned my friend, reck- 
lessly. “ I’ve got something better to think about.” 

The other man shrugged his shoulders, with an exag- 
gerated groan. 

“ A woman, of course, as usual ?” he asked, with con- 
tempt. 

“ No,” answered my friend, with fire. “ Not a woman. 
It’s the woman, this time, by Jove!” 


MY CHILD AND L 


17 


CHAPTER III. 

I WAS SO much startled by the short colloquy to which 
I had been an unwilling listener, that I leaned back against 
the wall, a prey to vivid sensations of pain which i could 
scarcely analyse. 

Before the two gentlemen had time to exchange any 
more words my aunt came out into the hall again, told 
my unlucky friend the number of a room which he could 
have on the second floor, and then turned to the solicitor, 
who was a well-known customer. 

When the hall was again empty, I crossed quickly into 
the back room, where my aunt was, and gave her the bill 
which she had sent me to look for. My mysterious 
friend was there, having already ingratiated himself so 
far with her that he had received an invitation to take 
a cup of tea. She remarked upon my appearance. In- 
deed, I was shaking like a leaf, and I saw in the glass as 
I passed that every trace of colour had left my face. My 
friend rose when I entered, but I would not look at him : 
I knew why he had come, and after what I had just 
heard, I felt bound to show my resentment at his pursuit. 

In answer to my aunt, I said that I had a headache, 
and that I would have a cup of tea presently when I felt 
better. Then, without heeding her comment that the tea 
would do me good and that I had better have it now, I 
went up-stairs to my own room and locked myself in, 
suffering from the most acute agitation. 

For, limited as our intercourse had been, absurdly 
Ignorant as I was about him, I already cared for this 
man. His own confession that he was a ‘‘ scamp” had, 
instead of quenching my liking, whetted my curiosity, 
and consequently my interest; and it is impossible to 
deny that my more recent discovery that there was some 
grave charge hanging over him had stimulated that in- 
terest. Still, young as I was, I had sense enough to un- 
derstand that I must avoid any closer relations with so 
dangerous an acquaintance, and I resolved, by avoiding 
him and treating him when we chanced to meet as if wo 
1 > 2 * 


18 


MV CHILD AND I. . 


had had no previous acquaintance, to show him that his 
further attentions would be unwelcome. 

When I went down-stairs, I found my aunt full of the 
utmost enthusiasm about the new arrival, and I easily 
found out that it was by the arts of subtle flattery that 
he had obtained such an instantaneous and strong hold 
upon her heart. This proof of the adroitness with which 
he ingratiated himself with women confirmed me in my 
resolve to be on my guard. The name he had given, and 
this was the first time I had heard it, was Mr. Dare. 

Nothing could exceed the coldness, the distant avoid- 
ance, with which I took care to treat him. I made it 
absolutely impossible for him to approach me, by main- 
taining, on all occasions when I was brought in contact 
with him, an apparent unconsciousness of his presence. 
As he had contrived firmly to establish his position as a 
great favourite with my aunt, of whose attractions he 
subtly suggested the highest admiration, I was severely 
scolded by her for my rudeness to him. 

“ It doesn’t become a girl without any prospects to be 
so stuck up,” was the text of her homily one day. “ And 
let me tell you, you can’t make a worse mistake than to 
judge a man by the clothes he wears. Mr. Dare, what- 
ever you may think, is as much a gentleman as anybody 
who comes here.” 

Now, in my own mind, I not only endorsed this senti- 
ment, but would have expressed it a great deal more 
strongly, and with a very different meaning from hers. 
For my aunt made habitual, vague use of the word 
“gentleman,” not to signify any special standard of 
refinement, but to intimate that the person designated 
by it for some reason met with her approval. 

In spite of my prudent reserve, I soon began to see, 
even with the briefest and most furtive glances at Mr. 
Dare, an expression in his eyes which told me that I 
should not be able to put him off much longer. The 
crisis, however, came with unexpected suddenness. 

My aunt was out, and I was left in charge of the 
house. This duty, which I very much disliked, I fulfilled 
inefficiently by secreting myself in the back room, and 
ringing the bell for one of the waiters when I heard any 
one enter by the front door. 

Presently there came a soft tap at the door of the room, 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


19 


and before I had recovered sufficiently from the agitation 
into which I was thrown by my knowledge that Mr. Dare 
was outside, he opened the door and looked round the 
screen which was just inside. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said he. “ 1 thought Mrs. Mor- 
gan was here.” 

“She will be back in a few minutes now,” I answered, 
stiffiy, springing up from the low seat which 1 had been 
occupying by the fire, and keeping my eyes fixed on the 
ground, while 1 felt a burning blush in my cheeks. “ I 
will tell her, as soon as she returns, that you wish to 
see her.” 

But instead of being repulsed by my exaggerated girl- 
ish haughtiness, Mr. Dare came further into the room, 
and standing only a few feet from me, looked contem- 
platively at the fire. Of course I expected some gentle 
suggestion of sentiment, some whisper of reproach. But 
instead of that, he only remarked, in a grave and thought- 
ful tone, — 

“ These coals don’t give out much heat, do they?” 

“ No,” said I, with impulsive acquiescence. And de- 
lighted at this opening, I was down on my knees in a 
moment, and seizing a long-disused pair of bellows, left 
in the house by some former occupant, I began using it 
vigorously, and quickly succeeded in covering Mr. Dare, 
myself, and the hearth-rug with a thick layer of coal- 
dust". 

“Yery well meant, like all your actions. Miss Far- 
brace,” said ho, gravely, but with veiled amusement 
which annoyed me ; “ but, like some of your other 
actions, not so effectual as it was meant to be.” 

Of course he wished me to ask him what he meant. 
But I would not, for indeed I knew. But he did not 
mean to let me escape by this simple expedient. 

“ You thought, I suppose,” he went on, in a measured 
tone, “that by seeming disdainfully oblivious of my 
existence you would force me to appear at last humbly 
oblivious of yours. But that, unluckily for me, is not 
possible. Now that you see that you have failed, will 
you not graciously descend from your pedestal and tell 
me how I have offended you ?” 

His voice was very sweet, more moving to my ears 
than any other I had ever heard. There was something 


20 


MY CHILD AND L 


SO touching, too, in the humility, the suggested pleading 
of his tone, that I found it difficult to steady my voice 
to give the sort of reply I wished. 

“ You have not offended me, Mr. Dare. I don’t know 
you well enough to be offended by anything you do,” I 
answered, in a strangled voice. 

There was a short pause, and then he said, in the 
meekest of voices, — 

‘‘I see. You think I have in some way presumed 
upon my short acquaintance with you? At least you 
will tell me how I have done this ?” 

“Oh, you haven’t done anything of the kind,’^ I re- 
plied, hastily and rather petulantly, desperately anxious 
that he should not beguile out of me against my will 
the real reason for my reticence. 

“ Then why are you so unkind? For you know it is 
unkindness. You can’t pretend not to know that you 
are making me suffer terribly.” 

He was trembling, and so was I. I was in a state of 
acute terror, expecting every moment that he would 
draw me into his arms, and that I should not be able to 
resist him. For I was so lonely, so friendless, that 1 
could not be indifferent to the one person who in all the 
world seemed to care about me, let his character be what 
it might. My aunt was growing day by day less careful 
of my feelings in her complaints of the burden she had 
to bear. Was it wonderful that the voice of sympathy 
should be so powerful when at last it reached my ears ? 

Still I struggled. 

“ You are talking nonsense, Mr. Dare. How can you 
suffer by anything I do or say, when I haven’t known 
you three months, and I have scarcely spoken to you 
three times ?” 

“ You know that has nothing to do with it. Almost 
the first time I saw you I knew you well. I haven’t 
been all over the world for nothing. I haven’t noticed 
thousands of faces without learning to read some things 
at least in them.” 

“ Why, what have you read in my face ?” I asked, 
interested. 

“That you are proud, shy, sensitive, and ” He 

paused a long time, so that I, standing by his side, look- 
ing at the fire and trying to seem less willing to listen 


MY CHILD AND /. 


21 


than I really was, felt that 1 was betraying impatience 
in a dozen little restless movements. “ And — lonely N 

I shivered at the word and at the tone in which he 
uttered it, and I turned my head, pretending to look at 
the clock which stood on a bracket against the wall, lest 
he should see that the tears were in my eyes. 

“ You see it is very easy for me to find out that, 
because I know so well what it is to bo lonely myself,” 
he went on, in a very low voice, as if coaxing me into 
kindliness. “ And why should you pour all the vials of 
your wrath upon me because 1, a lonely man, like to be 
near you, a lonely maid ? 1 don’t deny that I came here 

to be near you: but have I forced myself upon you? 
Have 1 pestered you with my societv ? If not, why are 
you so cold ?” 

“ Of course I have to treat the people who come to 
my aunt’s house as strangers, Mr. Dare,” I answered, in 
a voice which quivered a little, after a short pause. 

“ But you have not treated me as a stranger : that I 
should not so much mind. You have treated me as an 
enemy.” 

“ Oh, no, indeed.” 

I stopped, and turned my head, listening to some 
strange voices which I now heard in the hall outside. 
Somebody was inquiring for Mr. Dare. And the inquiry, 
which was made in the rough and surly tone of a com- 
mon man, filled me with suspicion and alarm on Mr. 
Dare’s account. The next moment there was a tap on 
the open door of the room in which we were standing, 
1 heard the strange man say, “ Beg pardon,” and then 
the tramp of heavily-shod feet behind the screen as the 
speaker came into the room. 

I don’t think Mr. Dare had heard his name uttered, 
for he seemed not to notice what was going on outside. 

As soon as I heard the man coming in 1 made a rapid 
gesture of silence to Mr. Dare, and, seizing him by the 
shoulder, forced him down on to the floor in the corner 
between the screen and a large, high-backed arm-chair. 
Then I had only time to sign to him to lie close before a 
respectably-dressed man looked round the screen, and, 
saluting me politely, asked for Mr. Dare. 

“ I will ask if he is in,” I said, unblushingly. 

The man cast his eyes suspiciously round the room. 


22 


MV CHILD AND L 


“ Beg pardon, ma’am, but they told me outside that 
he was here.” 

“ Yes,” I answered. He was here a few minutes ago. 
But he is not here now, you can see for yourself.” 

“ Perhaps you can tell me where he’s gone to ?” 

“ He told me he was going to Devonshire.” 

This was quite true. I had heard him express his 
intention of starting for Plymouth in a day or two. 

“ I suppose you couldn’t oblige me with his address ?” 
went on the man, not yet quite satisfied. 

‘‘ Ho ; you must ask Mrs. Morgan about that.” 

The man appeared to hesitate a moment, and then 
retired, not, however, further than tbe hall outside. As 
soon as he had disappeared, knowing that there w^as 
no time to be lost, as my aunt would return in a few 
minutes, and the man would certainly waylay her for 
further information, I touched Mr. Dare softly on the 
shoulder, and pointed out to him a door leading to the 
back of the house, by which he could escape into another 
street. Then I sat down to a piano, horribly out of 
tune, which my aunt kept in a corner of the room, and 
proceeded to make hideous music upon it to cover Mr. 
Dare’s retreat. He was only just in time. The door 
had scarcely closed upon him when the man who had 
been so anxious to meet him suddenly looked round the 
screen again. 

“ What do you want now ?” I asKed, turning coldly 
from the piano. 

“ Hothing, ma’am,” replied the man civilly, as he took 
two steps round the screen, and actually looked over the 
back of the high arm-chair into the corner where Mr. 
Dare had lain a moment before. “ Only you see, miss, I 
have purtic’lar business with him. And as he’s as artful 
a customer as ever I came across, and as he has a way 
of getting round the ladies, why, you see, miss, I thought 
I’d like to make sure myself that he hasn’t been getting 
round yow.” 

And as he spoke the man made a sudden dive across 
the room and opened the door by which Mr. Dare had 
escaped. Then he looked at me doubtfully ; but I sup- 
pose he saw in my white face only the expression he 
would have expected to see on that of a girl very much 
frightened by his behaviour. At any rate his apologies 


MY CHILD AND 1. 23 

grew more profuse as he returned into the hall : but, in 
doing so, he cast one more glance at that back-door. 

For the next ten minutes I moved about the room 
restlessly, unable to keep still. What had I done in 
helping Mr. Dare to escape ? Above all, what had he 
done to render escape necessary ? 

When my aunt returned, she was, as I had expected, 
waylaid in the hall by the man I had seen and his com- 
panion. They went with her into the office and con- 
versed in low tones. Presently I heard her letting them 
out, and then she came into the room where I was, with 
an expression on her face which 1 began to know only 
too well. She was in a very bad temper. 

“ What’s this I hear about your helping a criminal to 
escape from justice ?” asked my aunt, whose language 
always became rather “ literary” when she was annoyed. 
“ It’s enough to get the chouse into serious trouble. 
It’s been as much as ever I could do to talk the men 
over, and to get them to believe that you had nothing to 
do with it. But Thomas says he did come in here, and 
that you must have let him out the back way. A pretty 
fellow to make a friend of, a man the police are after !” 

‘‘ Why, aunt, he was your friend,” I ventured diffi- 
dently to suggest. 

“Don’t answer me,” answered she, tartly. “ It’s only 
to-day I’ve found him out in his true colours, but I’ve 
had my suspicions a long time.” 

I was astonished. For my aunt was by no means so 
scrupulous as these words implied concerning the moral 
character of her male friends : indeed she had more than 
once assisted a customer “ under a cloud” in a way which 
could only be called generous. I found out later that 
the reason of her change of feeling for Mr. Dare was 
her discovery that afternoon, through a common acquaint- 
ance, of Mr. Dare’s secret admiration for her niece, an 
admiration the more culpable that he had always care- 
fully concealed it from her. 

Surely she need not have grudged me my one most 
undesirable admirer ! Yet she did ; and during the next 
few days, during which Mr. Dare carefully abstained 
from making his reappearance, I was continually the 
object of sneers at my “police-court admirers” and 
“ gaol-bird friends.” 


24 


MY CHILD AND I 


To all my entreaties that she would tell me of what 
he was accused, however, she turned a deaf ear, saying 
only that he was not a fit person for me to make in- 
quiries about, and that I should know soon enough 
through the newspapers when he was taken up. These 
words increased my unhappiness. Until I had heard 
something more definite about his misdeeds I could not 
help giving him the benefit of the doubt, and telling 
my self that he would not have been so daring as to 
come back to London if he had really been guilty of the 
crime, whatever it was, of which he was accused. 

Although my aunt professed to have no further curi- 
osity about him, I knew that this was a profession only, 
by the eagerness with which she hurried up to his room, 
after the departure of the detectives, in order to take 
possession of Mr. Dare’s luggage. I couldn’t help being 
maliciously delighted when she came down again with 
an angry and disappointed face, complaining that the 
wretch had managed to get off, “ owing her a week’s rent, 
too,” without leaving so much as an old slipper behind 
him. 

By chance, as I heard my aunt utter these words, I 
glanced at Thomas the waiter, who was standing in the 
room to receive some orders; and I fancied, from the 
expression of his face, that it was not Mr. Dare who 
was responsible for the disappearance of his luggage. 

This incident brought to its full height the growing 
aversion from me which my aunt had long felt; and a 
few days after this, unable any longer to bear with 
patience her coldness and her taunts, I told her that I 
could not bear her treatment any longer, and that I 
would find a home somewhere else. 

She replied that she wished to goodness” I would, 
but that unfortunately it wasn’t so easy as I supposed 
“ to find anybody willing to take such a burden.” 

I went up to my own room in a fever of mortification 
and resentment, put on my hat and jacket and rushed 
out of the house. I did not know where to go, but I 
felt at that moment that the one spot in the world to be 
avoided was the building which held my aunt. I had 
not gone many steps from the hotel when I heard some 
one in pursuit. I would not look round, believing that 
the person following me must be sent by my aunt. But 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


25 


my pursuer gained upon me, and then I heard the voice 
of Thomas, the second waiter, begging me to stop. 

“I am not sent by your aunt, miss,” the man was 
astute enough to add. 

On hearing this I stopped and allowed him to over- 
take me. 

“ Begging your pardon, miss,’^ he went on, in a very 
respectful tone, “I hope you’ll excuse me taking the 
liberty ; but if you should happen to see — to meet Mr. 
Dare,” — and he looked askance at me as he empha- 
sized the name, — “ would you be so good as to tell him 
his papers and things is safe : nobody’s laid hands on 
them to pull ’em about and that. I've got them, and 
the gentleman can have ’em any time he likes ; and — 
and if you’ll be so good as add, miss, that mum’s the 
word as to who he is and what he is, as fur as I’m 
concerned.” 

And Thomas, who was a thin, light-haired man, with 
a face like a ferret, turned on his heel, and ran back to 
the hotel before I could assure him that there was not 
the slightest likelihood of my seeing Mr. Dare. 


CHAPTEE IV. 

This interview with Thomas, whose manner had never 
before been so respectful, again stimulated my curiosity 
about my fugitive admirer. What had the man discov- 
ered, in the luggage Mr. Dare had left behind him, to 
make him so anxious to find favour in the eyes of a per- 
son whose abrupt disappearance to avoid a couple of 
detectives the astute waiter knew of? 

I puzzled myself by this and similar reflections as I 
walked fast along the Embankment, up Parliament 
Street, towards St. James’s Park. It was dusk when I 
passed through the gate near the bridge where the ducks 
come to take bread from their visitors. There were some 
people standing about, but I did not notice them until I 
saw that a man had taken up his position quite close to 
me. I was moving away before he spoke and disclosed 
himself. 


B 


3 


26 


MY CHILD AND L 


How do you do, Miss Farbrace T 

I started violently, and was seized by a momentary 
impulse to run away and get lost among the people and 
the trees. I think he divined this, for he thrust out his 
hand as if to check me. and said, in a tone of entreaty, — 

‘‘ Ho, no. Have a little pity on an outcast, and give 
him your society for another minute and a half.” 

“ Outcast !” I echoed, gloomily. “ You are not more 
of an outcast than I, Mr. Dare.” 

Surprised, he asked me questions about myself with 
some eagerness, and soon drew from me the details of my 
aunt’s treatment, and an account of the taunts she had 
uttered that afternoon. 

“ Did she ? Did she say that ?” said Mr. Dare, with 
anger which did me good. ‘‘ The wretched woman ought 
to be ashamed of herself! I can’t imagine any joy, any 
honour in the world greater than that of caring for you, 
of protecting you.” 

“ Indeed, 1 wish you could persuade my aunt to feel 
like that!” said I, with a rather tearful smile. 

He said nothing to this for a little while, but stood 
beside me, pulling ferociously at his beard, in a state of 
evident excitement, indicative of a struggle which was 
going on within him. At last he turned abruptly away 
from me, and asked, shortly, — 

“What other friends have you, or relations? You 
must not stay under the roof of that coarse woman any 
longer.” 

I shook my head, not answering at first, for the tears 
were rolling down my cheeks, and I was trying to dry 
them unseen. 

“ I have no other friends,” I said, at last, “ and no near 
relations.” 

There was another pause, during which he still kept 
his head turned away from me; and when he spoke, it 
was in quite a harsh, rough tone. 

“ Would you stay with a relation of mine? She’s a 
trifle eccentric,, and strict, very strict. But you have 
been well brought up; you wouldn’t shock her. And — 
and I’m sure — at least I think, she would give you a 
shelter, for a few days, at any rate.” 

But the picture was not inviting enough to a shy girl, 
unaccustomed to strangers. The strict relation whom 


MY CHILD AND L 


27 


perhaps I might not shock, and who might perhaps 
(though this seemed doubtful) give me shelter for a few 
days, seemed a personage even more to be feared than 
my aunt. So I hastily declined the suggestion, and held 
out my hand in farewell. He took it, but he did not let 
it go. 

“ You won’t accept my offer ?” 

No ; I can’t. Thank you.” 

‘‘You will go back to your aunt and be miser- 
able?” 

“ Yes ; thank you.” 

“ Why, then, you are a little fool, and there’s nothing 
for me to do but to marry you.” 

He had by this time led me to a more secluded path, 
and as he uttered these words in a tone full of excite- 
ment and triumph, be suddenly took me in his arms. 
The words, the action, were so unexpected that I stood 
spell-bound, without an exclamation, without a struggle ; 
and he drew my face down to bis and kissed me on the 
lips. 

Half an hour before this, if I had been asked whether, 
knowing as much as I did of this man and the circum- 
stances of his disappearance from the hotel, I had any 
feeling of affection for him, I should, indignantly per- 
haps, have answered no. But when, for the first time, 
I felt a lover’s arms round me, a lover’s kiss on my lips, 
at the very moment, too, when I felt entirely alone and 
desolate, there sprang up suddenly within me an emotion 
quite new and sweet and strong; and all I could do, as 
my lips trembled at the touch of his, was to try to whis- 
per a most piteous, plaintive entreaty that he would let 
me go. 

He caught the sense of my incoherent words, and 
looked full into my eyes. 

“ Never, my darling,” he whispered, with an intensity 
which frightened me ; never, never, never! You must 
be my wife!” 

But I had the sense, intoxicated as I was by the strange 
emotions to which I had just been subjected, to remem- 
ber the mystery which hung over this man, and to un- 
derstand that he had no right to utter such words to me 
until he had given me some explanation of it. Drawing 
myself away from him by an unexpected and energetic 


28 


MY CHILD AND L 


movement, I panted out, while I trembled from head to 
foot at my own daring, — 

“ You forget that I don’t even know who you are. 
You have no right to say such things to me until you 
tell me.” 

Mr. Dare looked at me with a smile of amusement. 

“ Why, what do you want to know more than you do 
know ?” he asked. “ You know that I love you ; come, 
you do know that. And that is the great thing, isn’t 
it? You would say so if you knew as much of life as I. 
And you know that you love me, since you did a most 
bold and daring thing to save me from the police. What 
do you want to know more ?” 

His way of putting these questions made me almost 
ashamed of my persistency. However, I persisted. 

“ I want to know” — and my voice sank to the lowest of 
whispers, — why the police came?” 

Mr. Dare was quite unabashed. 

Oh, ye of little faith !” he said, lightly. “ Years ago, 
when I was no more than a lad, and I was kept very 
short of money, — much too short, considering what my 
position then was, — I got into difficulties, and I forged a 
check to get out of them. So I was sent away abroad in 
disgrace, and told that if I ever came back this charge 
would be revived against me. Well, I came back for a 
visit only ; and I stayed here — for love of you. There 
is no more story to tell.” 

“And the position you were in, — what was that?” 
asked I. 

“ Ah !” said Mr. Dare, quickly, “ that I shall not tell 
you. You must be satisfied to take me or leave me upon 
what you know.” 

He paused, with the air of a man who has quite de- 
cidedly made up his mind. What I knew was very lit- 
tle, I thought; but I did not dare to say so. ^^either 
could I bear at once to give up my lover, unsatisfactory 
as his position was. 

“ Well?” said he ; and he put his face abruptly so near 
to mine that the tender look in his eyes almost got the 
better of my discretion. I drew back frightened, and 
said, hurriedly and with hesitation, — 

“ Let me have a little time, just a little. You have 
taken me by surprise. Let me think about it.” 


MY CHILD AND L 


29 


Mr. Dare seemed impatient and rather astonished. 
He said I was very hard for such a young girl, and asked 
me how long I thought he could bear to wait. 

“ I suppose,” he went on, with a change to a resigned 
air, “ that you will hold out until your aunt is unkind to 
you again. Well, it’s an ill wind that blows nowhere ; 
and I sha’n’t have to wait long.” 

He felt in all his pockets, and, after turning out the 
various contents, selected from among the rest a small 
key, while I watched him curiously. “ The window of 
your little room,” he went on, “looks out over a small 
back street. When you want me to come for you throw 
this key out of the window so that it shall drop as 
nearly underneath it as you can manage. 1 shall find 
it!” 

“Indeed,” said I, with a little flash of spirit, “it will 
be a very long time before you do, Mr. Dare.” 

But I took the key. 

Mr. Dare seemed perfectly satisfied. He drew my 
hand through his arm, and led me slowly through the 
park, along Birdcage Walk, past Buckingham Palace, 
and through the Green Park to Piccadilly, talking to 
me about art, and the students at the schools, and ad- 
ventures he had had abroad, all without a word concern- 
ing the great new subject which had so suddenly been 
sprung upon me, and yet in tender, low tones which 
made the most trifling remark a kind of love-making. 
Then, with less talk, while I, happy against my will, 
still hung on his arm, we worked our way along crowded 
Piccadilly and back into the Strand. At the corner of 
my street he left me, spoiling the gentle farewell he 
took of me by a rapid, involuntary glance at the church 
of St. Clement Danes. 

For many days I saw no more of Mr. Dare, and I 
tried hard to think no more of him. But when I felt 
lonely, which was very often, or when my aunt was un- 
kind, which was very often, I could not help remember- 
ing his kind voice, his tender eyes, and wishing that it 
were possible to meet him again without pledging myself 
to a step so alarming as marriage with a man of whom 
I knew so little. 

Was I contemptibly weak to give way? Looking 
back now, and remembering the miserable hopelessness 

3 * 


30 


MY CHILD AND L 


of my life, I cannot help feeling that nine out of ten 
girls, indeed all but the strongest, would have done what 
I did. 

I opened my window one evening, when my aunt had 
said something which cut me to the heart, and threw 
down my little key into the street below. 

I watched and waited, and nothing happened, as far as 
I could see. 'No one came down the street to pick it up ; 
no upward look from a stray passer-by told me that my 
action had been observed. So I presently closed my 
window, with tears, and told myself that my fancied 
resource was a vain one. 

Next day I had quite made up my mind that Mr. Dare 
had failed in his threat, and, having recovered my spirits 
with the morning light, I was rejoiced to think that I 
was still ffee. My horror and astonishment were great, 
therefore, when, going out to fulfil some small commis- 
sion for my aunt, I had no sooner stopped at the door 
of the shop I was to visit than I found Mr. Dare stand- 
ing beside me. The shock was so great that I almost 
cried out. Then, as he at first said nothing, I took heart 
and told myself that this was but a chance meeting. 
He soon put me right. Holding out his hand, and seeing 
my frightened disinclination to shake it, he said, in a 
tone in which I detected a certain quiet resolution which 
alarmed me still more, — 

‘‘ Did you think I should not come, then ? that Me- 
phisto would repent of his bargain ? Look here.” 

I could not conceal my horror when he took out of 
his pocket and unfolded before my eyes a marriage 
license. 

‘‘ Oh, no, no !” I ejaculated, in the most discouraging 
tones an expectant bridegroom ever heard. “ I — I did 
not mean that. I was only miserable. And so I wanted 
to see you, wanted to speak to some one who would be 
kind.” 

And do you think I will not be kind, my darling ?” 

I was paralyzed : I could say nothing more at first. 
So we stood there just inside the door-way of the shop, 
with the roar of the Strand in our ears, for a few 
moments in silence. Then, suddenly, in the midst of so 
many thoughts of more important things a trifle sur- 
prised me. 


MY CHILD AND L 


31 


‘‘But you haven’t had time to get this since last 
night ?” said I, with a sidelong glance at the marriage- 
license, which he still held in his hand. 

He smiled as he answered that he thought it well to 
be prepared. 

“How, you see,” he went on, “we can be married 
to-morrow morning.” 

But this I positively declined. I was alarmed by the 
predicament in which I found myself, and the most he 
could obtain from me was a promise that I would “ think 
about it,” which I interpreted as meaning that I would 
think about marriage in general at some far distant time. 
In the mean time, however, 1 would meet him that even- 
ing for the comfort of a talk. 

When I got back to the hotel, however, I was sud- 
denly brought face to face with a condition of things 
which threw me, helpless as I was, into the arms of the 
one person who cared for me. My aunt had heard from 
one of the servants that 1 had met Mr. Dare in the 
Strand, and had stood talking to him ; and on my en- 
trance I found my trunks in the hall, and I met my 
aunt with the steely look in her eyes which 1 knew so 
well. She informed me coldly that it was impossible for 
her to keep under her roof a girl who so far forgot her- 
self as to make appointments in the Strand with men 
of bad character, and that she preferred in future to 
make me a small allowance, so that 1 could find a home 
elsewhere. 

I could not help crying. I tried to tell her that I 
wanted some advice, some help, even if she turned me 
out the next minute. My aunt did not listen. She 
handed me a card containing the address of a friend of 
hers who, she said, had a room to spare, and then, with 
a short good-bye and no oifer to kiss me, she left me in 
the hall. 

She had given me some money, which I was obliged 
to take ; and I drove at once, in the cab which she had 
ordered, to the address she gave, which was very near. 

I found that my aunt’s friend kept a lodging-house. 
She was a good-natured woman who made light of my 
distress, and told me, what was no doubt the truth, that 
my aunt only meant to frighten me, and was quite 
ready to have me back in a couple of days upon my 


32 


MY CHILD AND L 


promising to be more discreet in the future. In spite 
of this, the effect of my aunt’s ill-judged harshness was 
to make me choose to fly frOm the ills I knew to those 
that I did not know. 

On the following morning I was married to Mr. Dare 
at the church of St. Clement Danes. 

As we came down the church, after leaving the vestry, 
I saw, leaning over the gallery above our heads, a woman 
staring down at us with a white, angry face. My ex- 
clamation, and the convulsive touch I gave to my hus- 
band’s arm, made him look up also. Every trace of 
colour left his face, the expression of which changed in 
a moment to one which filled me with terror. 

He hurried me out of the church, jumped with me 
into a hansom, and directed the cabman to drive to 
Charing Cross. 

And he kept a sharp lookout to make sure that we 
were not followed. 


CHAPTER Y. 

As the hansom drove us to Charing Cross there were 
very few words exchanged between my husband and 
myself. He was occupied in watching to see whether 
we were followed, and I was in a state of dread, misery 
and bewilderment, much alarmed by the appearance of 
the woman, and yet lacking for some time the courage to 
inquire who she was. At last, however, as we got out 
at the station, and I saw my husband look down the 
Strand with another searching scrutiny, I ventured to 
say,— 

“ Who was she, Mr. Dare f” 

His answer was ready enough, and was given with a 
smile. 

“ Why, Mrs. Dare, it was an old servant of my family 
whom I met the other day and offended by trying to 
avoid. If she had only got out of that gallery in time 
she would have kept us talking all day.” 

“She looked very angry,” I remarked. 

“ Oh, yes ; don’t you know what old servants are like ? 
They think they have as much right to an intimate 
knowledge of your affairs as you have yourself; and 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


33 


because I did not tell her that I was going to be married, 
she considers my marriage as a personal grievance, I 
have no doubt.” 

Whether I was satisfied or not I hardly knew : but I 
asked no more questions. And in the pleasure of hearing 
that we were going into the country to spend the next 
few weeks among the hills and villages of Surrey, I 
began to lose the sense of dread and the disagreeable 
impressions to which I had been a prey that morning. 

It seems a ridiculous thing to say, but the greatest 
surprise 1 ever experienced in my life was the discovery 
that for the next five weeks I was really happy. I had 
made my rash plunge into matrimony in despair, with 
little hope of anything better than a mitigation of my 
misfortune. But my husband was so devotedly fond of 
me, was such a charming companion, that the smallest 
incidents of every-day life with him became invested 
with a new charm by his cheerful and humorous tem- 
perament. We had very little money to spare, but the 
weather was beautiful, the country pretty, and we were 
good walkers : I for my part did not wish for money ; 
and when my husband lamented the want of it I laughed 
at him. 

The only drawback to our happiness was one which 
surprised me : my husband complained that my love for 
him was not as great as his for me. I thought him 
fanciful and absurd, and told him truly that I loved him 
with all my heart, and that he should be satisfied in 
having all the love I had to give. He persisted in 
thinking that there were depths of affection in me which 
he was unable to sound, and his jealous importunity and 
distress on this account, while it sometimes made me 
smile, more often drove me to tears. Still, as I said, we 
were happy: and when he said that the end of our 
holiday had come, and that he must go back to town 
and earn some more money, the thought of the change 
saddened me immeasurably. His jealous passion was 
up in arms in a moment. He was on his knees beside 
me, looking up into my face with fiery eyes. 

You see, you see,” he exclaimed, half angrily, half 
sorrowfully. “ All places in the world are the same to 
me as long as I have you with me, while your love is 
only a matter of the flowers and the sunshine.” 
c 


34 


MY CHILD AND L 


NOf no, Harry, it is not,” I said, quietly. “ It is only 
that wo have been so happy; it doesn’t seem as if it 
could ever be the same in London in the fog.” 

Whether my husband feared that the fog would be 
too much for my constancy, or whether he had some 
deeper reason for disliking the thought of a return to 
town, I don’t know : he assured me that he was no 
longer in danger of arrest, that that matter had been 
settled, but it was evident that he looked forward to the 
change with no more eagerness than I did. My hus- 
band earned his living chiefly as a journalist and artist, 
but he also received occasional sums of money from a 
source which he did not disclose to me. I knew hardly 
more about his affairs now that I was married to him 
than I had done before, the difference between his age 
and mine making it easy for him to put between us this 
slight barrier, which I on my side made few attempts 
to break. He took lodgings for us in a narrow street 
off Holborn. My sitting-room had an old-fashioned bow- 
window from which I could watch the traffic in that 
busy thoroughfare ; and here it was that I spent most 
of my time when my husband was away. 

I was watching for his return one evening in May 
when a circumstance occurred which filled me with 
alarm and with suspicions which I found it impossible 
to stifle. As he came to the corner of the street and I 
raised my hand as usual in sign of welcome, his arm was 
suddenly seized b}^ a woman, whom I easily recognised, 
even at that distance, as the person who had been in the 
gallery of the church on our wedding-day. I saw him 
try to shake her off ; in vain. I saw him then endeavor 
to draw her away, no doubt in order to be out of my 
sight. But she was determined to keep him just where 
he was, and, being a woman of fair stature and robust 
muscular development, she was able to prevail. For 
some minutes they stood there together, he angry and 
almost silent, she, as I judged by her gestures, entreating, 
pleading with him, and finally threatening him. When 
at last he managed to break away from her, he did not 
come up the street, but turned back into Holborn and 
disappeared rapidly, not only from my sight, but from 
that of the other woman. 

I passed that evening in a frenzy of doubt, and the 


MY CHILD AND L 


35 


night also. Next morning I received a letter from my 
husband telling me that he had been sent to France for 
a few days on business by the paper to which he chiefly 
contributed, enclosing me some money, and advising me 
to go down to the little village where we had spent most 
of our honeymoon and await his return, where 1 could 
be happy among the country fields and lanes. 

But I felt ill and depressed, and was unhappy besides ; 
I had not the courage to take even a short journey by 
myself. So I stayed on in our lodgings, now rendered 
dearier than ever by my loneliness, until I received 
another shock by seeing my husband on the other side 
of the street when I was out shopping. 

I had that morning received a letter from him dated 
from Paris, and with the Paris post-mark, in which he 
said he should not be able to return for some days. This 
happened in Oxford Street, at a point where the throng 
both of vehicles and of foot-passengers was so great that 
I could not have recognised any figure less familiar than 
my husband even at that short distance. Had the street 
been less full of traffic I should most certainly have 
been able to overtake him. As it was, the first shock 
stunned me for a moment, so that I stopped short ; when 
I had recovered sufficiently to venture across the street, 
to a girl of my country breeding always an alarming 
task, my husband was lost among the crowd. I returned 
home stupefied, opened and read the letters I had received 
from him within the last few days, and tried to find in 
them some trace of the coldness, the weariness of my 
society, which was the only possible reason I could 
imagine for the deception he had played upon me. But 
I could find not a trace, in his passionately affectionate 
words, of any feeling but the most acute misery at our 
temporary separation. It seemed to me, and young as 
1 was I had the woman’s keen and sure instinct upon 
this matter, that there was an absolutely genuine ring 
in every expression of fondness, that the very simplicity, 
almost foolishness of his terms of endearment were 
dictated by the strongest love. 

I tried hard to convince myself that I had been mis- 
taken, and that it was not my husband whom I had 
seen. But this it was impossible to do. The only alter- 
native was to believe that he had been sent for back to 


36 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


London as suddenly as he had been sent away, and that 
urgent business to be transacted for his employers had 
delayed for a few hours his return to me. 

But the day went on, and night came, and he did not 
come. And in the morning came his usual Paris letter, 
lull of the same expressions of yearning, devoted affec- 
tion. My first thought, on the receipt of this, was to 
write back a letter full of reproaches for his treatment, 
and entreaties to him to explain his conduct. But before 
the letter was half written I was shocked by my own 
temerity, and tore up the letter, not daring to send it. 
Perhaps it was true, as he said, that my love was not 
strong enough to cast out fear. So I sent no answer, 
and thought that perhaps my silence would have a better 
effect than my most eloquent words. The next morning 
I received a letter which was an answer to the last I 
had written ; and as he said that he had just received 
mine, I took this as a conclusive proof that it had been 
forwarded to him from Paris, and that this answer of 
his had been forwarded to Paris and sent on to me. I 
still, therefore, refrained from writing; and the next 
two letters 1 received were full of reproaches for my 
silence and expressions of anxiety about me. 

Day after day, until far into the evening, I watched 
at my window, thinking that, even if he knew himself 
to be watched, and was therefore unable to come to me, 
he would at least find some opportunity of passing by 
the house in which I lived, to assure himself of my 
safety. 

This state of things had continued for more than a 
week, during which time my husband’s letters had 
grown more and more impassioned and imploring, when, 
late one evening, as I was still watching by my unlighted 
window, my heart leapt up on seeing turning the corner 
of the street from Holborn a man whom I recognized 
as my husband, in spite of a change of costume which 
seemed like an attempt at disguise. 

I cannot pretend that the feelings with which I 
watched him approach were those of unmixed joy. 
Pleasure certainly had a large share in them, for he had 
been a kind husband to me, and I loved him. But fear, 
anxiety, doubt, and suspicion helped to raise such a 
tempest of anxiety within me that I sank on my knees 


MF CHILD AND L 


37 


and clung to the window-sill, trembling and cold, unable 
at first to raise myself from the floor in order to run down 
the stairs to meet him. It was with tottering steps that 
I reached the door, ran down the stairs, and, opening the 
front door, stood just within to be ready to welcome him. 
I looked out, and saw him still some distance away, on 
the other side of the street. He crossed, on seeing me, 
but in a leisurely manner, not with the usual rapidity 
of his movements when impatient. 

I heard his footsteps :*I whispered, “ Harry!” I was 
already leaning forward, expecting to be taken into his 
arms, when he reached the door and quietly passed it, 
whispering, as he did so, — 

‘‘ Go in. Go in at once.” 

I had scarcely time to catch the sense of his words, 
to retreat into the door-way, and to half close the door, 
when I heard more footsteps outside, and had the 
curiosity to watch through the half-open door to see 
who it was that was coming. 

There was a street-lamp near enough to show me the 
face of the woman, for a woman it was, who, fortunately 
without a look in my direction, passed me as my hus- 
band had done. 

It was the woman I had seen twice before : once in 
the church, on my wedding-day, and once at the corner 
of this very street. I could have no doubt that she was 
following my husband. 


CHAPTEE VI. 

Although this third occasion of seeing the strange 
woman who was pursuing my husband naturally filled 
me with the greatest uneasiness, it did not make me 
jealous. I could have no doubt that, although my bus 
band had undoubtedly deceived me in representing her 
to be an old servant of his family, affection had no part 
in the feeling with which he regarded her. The tie 
which bound him to her, if tie there was, on his side 
was certainly fear alone ; and I could have little doubt, 

4 


38 


MY CHILD AND L 


after what I had seen, that it was the fear of her alarm- 
ing or injuring me. If my aifection for my husband 
had not been sensibly altered in character under the 
trials to which it had been lately subjected, no doubt I 
should have been retrospectively jealous of this woman, 
whom he had possibly at one time loved. As it was, 
while I was anxious to know what hold she had upon 
him, my chief concern was the power she apparently 
possessed of keeping us apart. 

On the followirjg morning I received a letter from my 
husband, posted in London, but giving no address. 

‘‘My own darling Wife, — I cannot bear this terrible 
silence. You are angry at my deception in pretending 
to be in Paris. My dearest one, cannot you trust my 
love sufficiently to understand that 1 can do nothing, 
nothing, except with a view of sparing you unhappi- 
ness? My darling, I worship you. My arms ache for 
you: I cannot sleep at night for thinking of you, for 
sighing, for shedding tears sometimes, to think that 
your lips are no longer near mine, that you may be ill, 
dying perhaps, while I am away. Eemember, to be- 
lieve that I love you is all I ask. I don’t say, believe 
in my noble character, my unblemished honour, or any- 
thing of that sort. Think what you like of my char- 
acter, my conduct ; despise me, hate me if you like for 
everything else, so long as you believe me and trust 
me for that one thing, — that I love you, I love you so 
dearly that no man has ever before loved a woman 
more dearly than I do you. I am a scamp, Perdita; a 
rascal if you like: but however bad your steady-going 
citizen may think me, I am punished for all and more 
than all I have ever done by what I am suffering now 
in not being able to come to you, my own darling 
wife. . Pity me, Perdita. I am followed about where- 
ever I go, so that I dare not come to you: it would only 
involve you in the ruin that must come. When I saw 
you last night I almost risked everything by taking you 
in my arms. Thank God, I had just strength enough, 
just courage enough not to do it. Wait a little longer, 
my dearest, and for Heaven’s sake write a few lines to 
the address I gave you in Paris. It will reach me, as 
you know. Tell me you are sorry for me ; tell me you 


MF CHILD AND /. 


39 


will be glad to see me, for see you I will, I must, or I 
shall fall ill and die. 1 am not well. 

“ Ever your devoted, adoring husband, 

“ Harry.” 

On receipt of this letter I burst into such a passion of 
tears that 1 tore up sheet after sheet before I could write 
one that was not too much blurred to read. 1 need not 
say what my answer was to such a letter. I entreated 
him to let me meet him somewhere, if only for ten 
minutes, promising to dress myself in such a way that I 
should not be known, and to be discreet beyond measure. 
But in his answer to this, which, allowing for the time 
taken up by sending my letter to Paris, I did not get 
immediately, he refused to let me meet him, although he 
expressed himself as warmed and comforted inexpres- 
sibly by my loving letter. He sent me some money, 
and told me to take great care of myself and to keep 
heart, for that he would contrive to see me soon. 

But these assurances, tender and kind as they were, 
could not, in the circumstances, make me happy, or even 
afford me much comfort. 

Two or three days passed miserably, during which I 
kept in-doors, afraid that my husband might arrive un- 
expectedly, and that I might be absent and so lose the 
opportunity of seeing him. 

At last there came a day of such bright sunshine that, 
weary of my long imprisonment in two dark rooms, I 
ventured out, feeling sure that my husband would not 
choose the full daylight of such a bright day in which 
to pay a surreptitious visit. I went through the central 
squares towards Eegent’s Park ; and as I passed one of 
the large, gloomy, severely respectable houses which 
abound in that district, I saw, coming down the steps, 
Mr. Wray, the solicitor who had met my husband at my 
aunt’s hotel and warned him of the danger to which he 
was exposing himself by remaining in England. He 
recognized me at once, and insisted on shaking hands 
with me, although I averted my head and tried to pass 
quickly without speaking. 

“ Miss Farbrace !” he exclaimed. “ Why, you weren’t 
going to cut me, were you ? After all the trouble I’ve 
taken, too, in helping your aunt to find you !” 


40 


MY CHILD AND /. 


“ I don’t wish my aunt to find me. I was not happy 
with her, and she turned me out of the house herself,” 
I answered, coldly. 

Well, well, a moment’s irritation, perhaps; nothing 
more. She has been terribly distressed by your disap- 
pearance, and if you would only go and see her ” 

I drew back at once. 

“Oh, well, well,” went on Mr. Wray, quickly, per- 
ceiving that his persuasions would be thrown away, “ of 
course you can do as you like about that. Only it is 
a pity, don’t you see, to cherish ill-feeling after a mis- 
understanding of this sort, when by so doing you may 
lose a valuable friend. For Mrs. Morgan, though she 
has her faults, is a good-hearted woman, and can be a 
useful friend.” 

“I know she can — to other people,” I answered, 
bitterly. “But she has not been a very kind friend 
to me.” 

“And so you won’t try her again?” said Mr. Wray. 
“ Will you let me have the pleasure of telling her that 
you are well and happy ?” 

Under his scrutiny my eyes fell. I was not happy, 
and he saw it. 

“ You can say that I am well, yes.” 

“ And — happy ?” 

I could feel that I was blushing uneasily. 

“ Oh, yes,” I answered. “ At least as happy as a wife 
can be when her husband is away. For I am married 
now.” 

“ Married I Indeed !” 

I hesitated. This man’s feelings towards my husband 
were friendly, as I knew. Could I do better than con- 
fide in him to some extent ? I decided that at least it 
could do no harm.” 

“ Yes. My husband is Mr. Dare.” 

But Mr. Wray did not seem to know whom I meant. 

“Dare? Oh, indeed!” 

“You know him,” said I, quickly, with an uneasy 
throbbing at my heart. “ You met him one day in the 
hall, at the hotel, my aunt’s hotel. You told him that — 
that it was not safe for him to be in England. 

Mr. Wray looked at me in stupefaction. 

“ You don’t mean to say that Good heavens !” 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


41 


And the expression of his face instantly changed to 
one of deepest pity. There was a short pause, during 
which 1, in confusion and in some anger, looked every- 
where but at his face. He then went on, in a kindly 
and persuasive tone : 

“Look here, Mrs. Dare. You say your husband’s 
away. I suppose you don’t know where he’s gone to?” 

“Yes, I do,” I answered, indignantly; and then I 
stopped short, blushing very deeply as I remembered 
that I had unconsciously said what was not strictly 
true. 

“ Well,” went on Mr. Wray, who was walking by my 
side, having insisted upon accompanying me on my way, 
“ why don't you go and stay with your aunt for a few 
days, until he comes back? It would be much pleas- 
anter for you than staying in London lodgings by your- 
self, and I assure you your aunt would be delighted to 
see you.” 

I persisted in my refusal, and it was only upon his 
most urgent assurances that he would not tell her my 
address that I was prevailed upon to give it to him. 
When he had left me I worried myself into thinking 
that even this was an indiscretion. But Mr. Wray, who 
was an elderly man, had always shown a kind interest 
in me, having known my father well by reputation, and 
being, though one would not have thought it from his 
dry-as-dust appearance, interested in all matters con- 
cerning the Turf. In my loneliness, therefore, I had 
yielded to the weakness of confiding in him so far as to 
tell him where I lived. As I went home 1 reproached 
myself a little for my indiscretion ; but the greater 
trouble — that of wondering why Mr. Wray was so milch 
shocked by my marriage — soon swallowed up the rest. 

It must have been about a week after this, during 
which time I had been in the constant receipt of my 
husband’s letters, to which I could only reply in the 
same roundabout way as before, that I found that the card 
bearing the words “A Bed-Sitting- Eoom To Let” had 
been taken out of the window underneath that of my 
sittingroom. As I never came in contact with my 
fellow-lodger, I did not trouble my head about him, un- 
til, returning home from a walk one day at dusk, I saw 
his face at his window ’and recognised it as that of the 

4 * 


42 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


detective who had come to the hotel in search of Mr. 
Dare. 

This discovery naturally gave me a great shock, since 
I felt certain that he was again on the watch for my 
husband, who might at any moment, by returning to 
see me, walk, as it were, into the jaws of the lion. I 
instantly despatched a letter warning my husband of 
this new danger, and I set myself to watch, on my side, 
with more keenness than ever. I had this one advan- 
tage, — that whereas the window underneath mine was 
not a bow-window, I could see up and down the street 
very much farther than the ground-floor lodger could. 

Feeling, as I did, that it was now my duty to spy as 
much as I could upon the detective’s movements, I soon 
found that he lost no opportunity of ingratiating him- 
self with the little, slatternly maid-of-all-work, who was 
constantly snatching a moment to converse with him in 
the passage or on the staircase. I at once divined that 
he had found out from her all the particulars she knew, 
few as they were, concerning my husband and myself. 
By a little coaxing and a little finesse on my side, I dis- 
covered also from Sarah that the great object of the 
lodger down-stairs was to try and obtain the key of the 
letter-box, which Mrs. Cook, being an experienced land- 
lady, always kept herself. His plea was that his corre- 
spondence was very important, and that a delay of a 
few minutes in the receipt of his letters was a matter of 
serious importance to him. * 

“ Which I told him, ma’am,” went on Sarah to me, “ as 
I dursn’t arsk Mrs. Cook for it, for she’d only scold like 
anything and say he had no right to his letters before 
the other lodgers. An’ I’m sure as for gettin’ it without 
arskin’, there ain’t no way for me to do it, even if I 
wanted to, — which I doti’t, an’ so I told him.” 

Now this revelation made me more watchful than 
ever, and I took care always to be in waiting at the top 
of the staircase when the postman came, and to watch 
from that dark corner all that went on in the hall below 
until my letter, if there was one for me, was placed 
safely in my hands. 

From the moment that I discovered who my new 
fellow-lodger was, I never left the house until I had 
received an answer to my letter informing my husband 


MY CHILD AND L 


43 


of this new peril. When, however, I had received his 
assurance that he would be on his guard, I yielded one 
evening to the longing for a little fresh air, and at half- 
past nine, when the last post was gone and I was there- 
fore off guard, I put on my bonnet to go out for a 
walk. 

I had scarcely got outside my room when I heard the 
front door open to let some one out ; and I got out of the 
house in time to see the back of my friend the detective, 
who was walking at a rapid pace, as if to keep an im- 
portant appointment. 

Then the idea darted into my mind that the best thing 
1 could do with my time was to play the spy upon the 
spy, and to find out, if possible, where he was going, in 
the interests of my husband. This was the easier for 
me to do, as, on the one occasion on which I had caught 
sight of him, I had every reason to believe that he had 
not seen me, and that, therefore, even if he should turn 
round and see me walking behind him, he would not, at 
the distance I took care to keep between us, know that 
I was his fellow-lodger. 

My great fear was that, being evidently in a hurry, he 
should get into a hansom ; in which case I felt I should 
not have the courage to get into another and deliberately 
tell the driver to go in pursuit. Luckily for my plan, 
however, it was a very fine September night, and the 
man chose to walk. He went along Holborn, down 
Charing Cross Eoad, I following all the time and keeping 
him in sight without very much difficulty, along Shaftes- 
bury Avenue and Piccadilly, never slackening his pace 
until he came to Hyde Park Corner. Here he loitered 
about for a few minutes, evidently waiting for some one. 
Then, still looking round him from time to time, lest he 
should miss the person whom he had to meet, he saun- 
tered slowly down Grosvenor Place, keeping on the side 
opposite to the houses. It was necessary now for me to 
observe the greatest caution, but I managed to discover 
that one in particular of the tall mansions overlooking 
the grounds of Buckingham Palace was the object of his 
attention. I was puzzled and curious, and I wondered 
whether he had found me out and come to this place as 
a blind ; for I had imagined that the goal of his journey 
would be some dingy lawyer’s office. What business 


44 


MY CHILD AND L 


could he possibly have connected with my husband at 
such a stately mansion as this ? 

Even as I asked myself this question a woman brushed 
past me as I stood in the crowd waiting at the corner op- 
posite St. George’s Hospital for their omnibuses; quickly 
as she passed, I recognized the woman whom 1 had on 
three occasions seen with my husband, and I knew at 
once that it was she for whom the detective was waiting. 
Moving slowly from where 1 stood in the midst of the 
crowd to the outer skirt of it, I saw, as I had expected to 
see, that the woman and the man met on the opposite 
side of the road. They walked down some little dis- 
tance towards Victoria: I did not dare to follow; but in 
about ten minutes the woman returned alone, and, to 
my great astonishment, went up the steps of the man- 
sion which the detective had been watching, and was 
instantly admitted. 

I had seen enough to puzzle me completely, without a 
hope of finding a clue to the mystery which surrounded 
my husband’s relations with this woman. He had told 
me that she was a servant of his family. But in that 
case she would not have gone in by the front-door of 
such a house as this. I lingered a little while in the 
neighbourhood, but saw no more either of the man or 
of the woman, and then I got into an omnibus and re- 
turned home. 

On the following day the detective was still in the 
house, and still on the watch. In the evening the land- 
lady went out, and when the seven o’clock post came 
round, I saw from my post at the top of the stairs that 
the detective had at last got his wish ; for he came out 
of his room with the key of the letter-box in his hand. 
Hot caring that I must now expose myself to recognition, 
I ran down the stairs and reached the front-door as soon 
as he did. He was taken by surprise, and fell back a 
step, retaining, however, the key in his hand. Looking 
through the glass of the letter-box I saw that the only 
letter it contained was one from my husband to me. 

“ Give me the key, if you please,” said I. “ The letter 
is for me.” 

I was bold, for there was a witness present in the 
shape of Sarah, who had appeared from the back premises 
on hearing my rapid descent. 


MY CHILD AND L 


45 


“ I will give you the letter, madam,” he said. 

And before I could interfere he had turned the key in 
the letter-box, taken out my letter, and not concealing 
the fact that he examined the handwriting of the address 
carefully, he handed it to me. 

“ Thank you,” he then said, politely, “I have found out 
all that I wanted to know.” 

I was much agitated, and I had come down the stairs 
very rapidly. When the man uttered these words, I 
turned suddenly so sick, so faint with disappointment, 
with dread, that I fell back against the wall helplessly, 
unable for the moment to stand alone. 

Sarah was frightened. 

“Oh, ma’am, don’t look like that!” she exclaimed. 
“ You look as you was agoin’ to die this very minute.” 
And, in the excess of her feeling, the little maid turned 
against her whilom friend the ground-floor lodger. 
“Look what you’ve been and gone and done, fright- 
ening the poor lady like that I” 

To do the man justice, he seemed himself concerned 
at the strong etfect his action had produced upon me, 
and was anxious to make all the amends in his power. 
He sent Sarah for a glass of water, and took the oppor- 
tunity to say, as soon as she was out of hearing, — 

“ Very sorry, ma’am, very sorry indeed to have upset 
you. But it’s all in the way of business, you know, and 
I’m bound to do the best I can for them 1 serve.” 

“ What good can you do here ?” I answered, indig- 
nantly. “If you are following my husband you will 
not find him here ; and you have no business to touch 
private letters.” 

I was hardly myself yet, being very cold and weak, 
so that I had to sit down on the little bench by the hat- 
stand. The man received my indignant outburst very 
mildly, and looked at me with unmistakable pity. At 
last he said, quietly, when he had taken the glass of water 
from Sarah and sent her otf again in search of some- 
thing else, “I ain’t following him this time, ma’am. 
He’s settled that little matter I was after him for at the 
hotel down in the Strand.” 

I started and broke out involuntarily, — 

“ Settled it ? Settled the forgery ?” 


46 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


Again the man gave me a pitying look before re- 
plying — 

“ Forgery ! I don’t know anything about that, ma’am. 
We’ve been after him a many times for one thing and 
another, but he’s got friends who help him out of his 
scrapes, or he’d have been out of reach of making more 
mischief years ago.” 

I leaned back, with my eyes fixed upon the man’s 
face, horror-struck and unable so much as to protest. 
The man hesitated, looked up, looked down, and then 
went on : 

“No, ma’am. When I saw you in the Strand that 
day be gave me the slip,” — and the man looked at me in 
a shrewd manner which told me that he knew I had 
connived at the escape, — “ I had a warrant against him 
taken out by the St. Pancras Guardians for the support 
of his wife, who had become chargeable to the parish 
through his leaving her destitute.” 

But I utterly refused to believe this, and springing up, 
with all my energies recovered in a moment, I said, — 

“His wife! Oh, no. You’ve made a mistake. You’ve 
been following the wrong man.” 

The detective shook his head. 

“No, ma’am, sorry to distress you, but I haven’t. 
Would he have paid up for her if she hadn’t been truly 
his wife? Sorry to say it, ma’am, but he’s as precious 
a rascal as you’ll find in a long day’s march, and if you’ll 
take advice that I give you honest, you’ll get away from 
here as quiet and as quick as you can, and never let him 
know where you’ve gone to. For his wile has a notion 
of the game he’s been carrying on, and it’s she that has 
set me to watch you.” 


CHAPTEE VIL 

It seems strange to me now when I think about it, but 
the announcement that the man I had married was really 
the husband of another woman did not overwhelm me, 
indeed, came almost a relief to me. For the mystery 


MF CHILD AND L 


47 


concerning him was at last cleared up : I knew who the 
woman was who had been watching us ; I knew, in fact, 
the worst. 

The detective was astonished, as well he might be, at 
the way in which I received the intelligence. There was 
no more fainting, no more helplessness; I just looked at 
him straightforwardly, and presently said, — 

“ Oh !” 

“ You take it very well, ma’am,” he said, with some 
admiration and still more astonishment. “ I never knew 
a lady take a thing of that sort so cool before.” 

I hardly noticed what he was saying, so deeply occu- 
pied was 1 in considering this new development. It must 
be remembered that my feelings towards my husband had 
undergone a change since the happy early days which 
immediately followed our marriage. His reticence, his 
deception had inevitably weakened my atfection, so that 
this last blow was not the heart-breaking one it would 
have been if nothing had happened previously to shake 
my trust in him. For my own position 1 think I should 
have cared little, but for one secret reason. My thoughts 
turned to the other woman, the wife whom he had de- 
serted for me. 

“ He deserted her ? Left her destitute, you say ?” 
said I. 

“ Yes, ma’am. She had to go the workhouse, along of 
her little girl.” 

1 started and flushed deeply. This desertion of his 
own child shocked me more than my husband’s treatment 
either of myself or of the other woman. 

“ He deserted his child, his own child I” 

“ Yes, ma’am. He’s a beauty, he is !” 

But I did not want to hear the man’s comments, so I 
thanked him quite coolly for the information and the 
warning he had given me, as if the matter in hand were 
of no consequence, and then I turned to go up-stairs. Be- 
fore I had taken many steps, however, I addressed him 
once more : 

“Hoes this woman, his wife, hate him very much? 
She wants to be revenged upon him, I suppose ?” 

The man smiled. 

“ Why, no, ma’am,” said he. “ The boot’s on the other 
leg altogether. It’s you she hates, and wants to be re-. 


48 


MY CHILD AND L 


venged on, as far as I can make out. That’s mostly the 
way in these cases.” 

Poor thing !” said I. 

And I went up-stairs more thoughtful than unhappy; 
for I was no longer in the dark as to the dangers which 
hung over my head as well as my husband’s. 

My husband's! I repeated the words to myself half 
aloud, with something like a laugh. It was impossible 
for me to realize yet that they were a mockery only of 
his real relation to me. Had he then just tired of me 
and deserted me, that he lived in the same city with me 
and never came iDack ? I could not believe this. I took 
out his letters and read them again, and felt assured that 
this was not true. His wife, I repeated to myself, — his 
wife, his real wife, the other woman, had got hold of 
him again, and she, poor thing, knowing that his heart 
was gone from her altogether, had set a detective to keep 
watch upon the miserable girl whom he had deceived, to 
find out whether her husband’s infatuation still continued. 
How can she be so mean-spirited ! thought I, with a curl 
of the lip. I felt that I would rather die than trouble 
myself further about a man who had treated me so ill. 
It may be taken as a sure proof that my love had dimin- 
ished in a very marked degree, that I could take the 
other woman’s part as well as I could my own. 

In the mean time there was the practical question. 
What was I to do ? But for my quarrel with my aunt 
I should have gone straight back to the hotel. Even 
now for one weak moment I harboured the idea, only to 
reject it when I considered how abject my humiliation 
would be, and, more than all, how vindictively she would 
be likely to triumph over my wretched story. As a 
matter of fact, I did my aunt the greatest injustice by 
these thoughts, as I presently found ; but I had seen 
BO much of the hard look her face could assume in dis- 
pleasure that it was no wonder I shrank from the possi- 
bility of exposing myself to it. 

So I ended by doing the simplest thing in the world, — 
remaining where I was. And it was not until I had 
solved the problem in this way that I remembered that 
I had in rny* possession a letter from my husband that I 
had not* yet opened. When I did so, the story I had just 
heard suddenly took an altogether new complexion. 


MV CHILD AND L 


49 


This was the letter : 

My own darling Perdita, — I am ill, very ill. It is 
possible that 1 may not live many more days. 1 caught 
a cold which developed into inflammation of the lungs, 
and my voice is gone. I am tortured with thinking about 
you, wondering whether j’ou are keeping well and taking 
care of yourself, and whether, above all, you have been 
worried and alarmed by a person of whose very exist- 
ence I kept you as ignorant as 1 could as long as possible. 
My darling wife, if this fiend of a woman should find 
you out in spite of all the precautions I have taken, do 
not pay the slightest heed to what she says, but wait till 
I can come to you, for come I will for one last look at 
your face, one last kiss before I die in your arms, — pay 
no heed to her, I say, until you can see me and hear ray 
explanation. It is a very poor one, I have to confess : I 
have treated you badly, cruelly. My excuse is this: that 
my love for you swallowed up every other feeling, and 
that I trusted to my luck to ward off a danger whicli 
then only seemed remote. Wait, I say; do not judge 
me until you have heard me. My darling, 1 would have 
come to you long ago l)ut that I have been watched by 
this woman, so that I could not have come to you with- 
out bringing her after me. But now 1 have devised a 
plan to get her away from her post of sentinel for long 
enough for me to escape to where my heart lies. Keep 
up your courage, my darling wife, and whatever you 
hear against me, keep your arms open and your heart 
warm for your dying husband. 

“ Harry.” 

I had not recovered from the convulsion of feeling 
into which I was thrown by this letter when a four- 
wheeled cab drew up slowly to the door. 

There stepped out of it one of those carelessly-dressed, 
rough-haired men, good-huinourc^d of face and inclined 
to be stout, of whom I had already seen enough to know 
that he belonged, either directly or indirectly, as a dab- 
bler or as a genuine worker, to the ranks of Literature 
or of Art. He helped out of the cab with thQ utmost 
tenderness a feeble invalid whom, but for the lact that 
I expected him, I should scarcely have recognised as my 

c d 5 


50 


MY CHILD AND I, 


husband. Shocked beyond measure, prepared as I was, 
I ran trembling down to the door to let them in. It was 
quite clear to me from the first moment of our meeting 
that my husband had in no wise exaggerated the seri- 
ousness of his condition. His weakness was extreme; 
though he tried to speak, I could not understand him ; 
and the tears rolled down his cheeks as we half led, half 
carried him up-stairs. Even the feeble and shaky hand- 
writing of the letter I had just received from him had 
not led me to expect to see such a wreck as he had 
become. He wanted to remain on the sofa in the sitting- 
room ; but in this he was overruled, his friend, the most 
genial, good-natured Bohemian in the world, telling him, 
with a kindly glance at me, that bed was the best place 
for him, so that he might be nursed back to health 
speedily, and not give me an invalid to look after longer 
than was absolutely necessary. 

So his friend put him to bed, and then came into the 
sitting-room to exchange a few words with me. 

“ I’m afraid he’s very ill, Mrs. Hare,” he said, in a low, 
sympathetic voice. Of course he ought not to have 
come here to-day. But he was so anxious to see you 
that it was impossible to refuse him. Indeed I think a 
refusal would have killed him outright.” 

‘‘ But why not have sent for me to go to him ?” said I, 
quickly. “ Surely he knew that I was ready to come !” 

“ Yes, yes, of course ; it wasn’t that. But Oh, 

well, I suppose something about it There was some 

one he didn’t want you to meet who might have put in 
an appearance and made things unpleasant in spite of 
all precautions. That’s how it was, you see.” 

I looked up at him inquiringly, but he would not meet 
my eyes, and he took up his hat and held out his hand, 
saying that he would look in again by and bye, and see, 
as he expressively continued, “ whether things were 
going on all right.” 

“ You are very good, very kind. I thank you very 
much, Mr. ?” I hesitated, inquiringly. 

“ Oh, not Mr. anything. Just Tom, plain Tom, very 
plain Tom,” said he, with a jovial laugh. “ I’ve known 
your husband a long time now, and he never calls me 
anything but Tom ; in fact nobody does.” 

I concluded from the way in which he spoke that the 


MY CHILD AND L 


51 


friendship between my husband and him was one of 
many years’ standing. I afterwards found that they had 
never met until five weeks before that day, but that, 
nevertheless, he had for more than half of that period 
nursed him and tended him like the most devoted of 
brothers. He had a surname, in spite of his objection 
to use it : it was Hertz. 

When he had gone, I went back to my husband, whom 
I found so weak that he could not attempt to speak 
without coughing violently enough to alarm me. I in- 
sisted therefore upon his remaining silent, and sat beside 
him holding his hand, this being the only way by which 
I could induce him to lie still. 

When I had got him to take some beef-tea I had 
caused to be prepared, he presently fell asleep. 

I did not dare move, so I sat still holding his hand 
until I was cold and stiff, and until the daylight had 
faded away. A fog was coming on which alarmed me, 
for I feared it might make my husband worse. I was 
watching the dim cloud grow denser in the little space 
of sky visible to me above and between the chimney- 
pots, and counting the ticks of my husband’s watch 
which was fastened to the rail of the bed above his 
head, when I heard a knock at the front-door, followed 
by a colloquy in the hall. 

The blood rushed tingling up into my cheeks when I 
heard Sarah say, “This way, ma’am,” and coming up- 
stairs, knock at the door of my sitting-room. I released 
my hand without disturbing my patient and slid quietly 
through the folding-doors into the sitting-room. Sarah's 
head was by this time inside the door. 

“ Oh, there’s a lady wishes to see you, ma’am,” said 
she. 

And the person announced pushed past the girl into 
the room and shut the door. 

“ You know who I am, I expect !” said my visitor, 
defiantly. 

Indeed I had been prej ared for this visit, so I only 
said, drearily, — 

“ Oh, yes, I think so. You are his wife.” 

It was my visitor who was surprised, not I. She 
stared at me in evident perplexity, and with some sus- 
picion. 


52 


MY CHILD AND /, 


Sit down, please,” said I, “ and I will light the gas. 
And I must ask you to speak low, as he is asleep in the 
next room. I dare say you know he only came here 
to-day, and the exertion has fatigued him so much that 
I’m in terror every time he draws breath.” 

She mumbled something in assent rather incoherent, 
sat down on the uninviting lodging-house sofa, and 
stared at me in silence while I got the matches, lit the 
gas, and drew down the blinds. 

“ Will you have a cup of tea ?” I asked, as I rang the bell. 

My visitor started, and drew herself up, scandalized 
by my coolness. 

“ Tea ! Me I” at last she gasped. 

“ Yes. Why not? Why should you and I quarrel, or 
try to be disagreeable to one another? The misfortune 
which has happened to us both is neither your fault nor 
mine.” 

The woman looked at me incredulously, as if she 
found it impossible to believe that I was sincere. 

“ You take things very coolly !” said she, at last. 

“ Oh, I have got over all the worst part of it now,” I 
said, wearily, as 1 leaned against the mantel-piece, look- 
ing into the fire. “ You would not feel any bitterness 
towards me, I think, any more than I do towards you, 
if you knew what 1 have felt and suffered lately, know- 
ing that there was some mystery about my husband’s 
movements (you mustn’t mind my calling him my hus- 
band, for it was only this morning that 1 learnt that he 
had a wife living when he married me), and ” 

The woman started up. 

“ Only this morning — that you knew I” she cried, as 
she looked search ingly into my face. 

“Yes. The detective told me. But you need not 
have set a detective to watch me. Why didn’t you 
come to me yourself? It would have been much kinder 
to put me out of my suspense. And you need not have 
been afraid that I should have stood in your way for a 
moment,” I went on, proudly, “ when I once knew.” 

The woman uttered a rude little laugh, and glanced 
at the folding-doors. 

“ That’s just what I felt, and what I was afraid of,” 
said she. “If I’d been the means of parting you from him 
altogether, like that, he’d never have spoken to me again.’’ 


MY CHILD AND /. 


53 


And you would have cared !” cried I. “ Why, if a 
man had treated me as he has treated you nothing 
would ever induce me to speak to him again !” 

The woman shook her head. 

You young girls are like that,” she said. “ When a 
man’s had the best years of your life, and when you’ve 
loved him above everything else, and slaved for him and 
put up with him for years, you don’t feel like that, and 
so I tell you. The world is all before you; you’ll have 
your chances of happiness yet. It’s all behind me; and 
if it weren’t that his people are kinder to me than he is, 
there would be nothing before me but starvation, either 
quick or slow.” 

“ But,” said T, astonished, “ you talk as if you were 
afraid of him, and I understood that it was he who was 
afraid of you. So that I myself was afraid of your 
coming, thinking that you would be very violent and 
that you would say cruel things to me.” 

The woman looked at me askance, and seemed rather 
confused. Then she laughed uneasily. 

“ Why, yes,” she said, hesitatingly, “ but then, you 
see. I didn’t know how you’d take me. If you had 
begun to bluster, and to say you were his lawful wife, 
when all the time 1 knew that I was, you’d very likely 
have found me dilferent. But — but as it is, yoii know, 
why, of course 1 can’t help seeing there’s something in 
what you say, that it’s hard upon you, too.” 

She spoke with a touch of feeling in her voice, and 
then, looking at her, I for the first time perceived, what 
the hardness of her expression h:»d prevented my seeing 
before, that the woman had had beauty. She had still 
the remains of a very fine figure ; but she was one of 
those brunettes who, starting with more beauty of feature 
than of expression, lose all their charms when the pink 
and the olive tints of the face get merged, as middle-life 
approaches, into a uniform, unpleasing, leathery tint. 
The compassion I had felt for the woman wheji I first 
heard her story grew stronger as 1 looked at her and 
listened to her. Although she was not a lady, she was 
not by any means vulgar. She absolutely looked the 
woman she described herself to be: a faithful, hard- 
working, a moreover thoroughly respectable drudge, 
weary of the hard life she had had to lead, and divided, 

5 * 


54 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


for the rest, between fidelity and bitter jealousy. For 
it was evident that she was by no means able yet to 
bring herself to feel for me as much as I did for her. 

“Then, if you are so much afraid of him,” I said, 
pressing the point curiously, “ why have you come here 
to-night?” 

She looked down and hesitated. 

“I — I hardly know,” she stammered, at last. “At 
least I suppose I meant to — to have it out with you : 
only — only, you see, I didn’t know you were going to 
take it so quietly, so sensibly. I thought you were 
going to stand on your rights ” 

“ Eights !” echoed I, with irony. 

“ While I,” she went on, “ meant to stand on mine.” 

“And now,” said I, “ are you going to see him ?” 

“ You would let me ?” said she, looking at me with 
much astonishment. 

“ Oh, yes. Besides, you have the most right.” The 
way was open to the folding doors, but still she hesitated. 
It was my turn to look surprised. “ You don’t care to 
see him while I’m here, I dare say?” I suggested. 
“ Shall I leave him to you ? I will only ask to see him 
just once more.” 

But my visitor had grown very white, and she stared 
at me in perplexity. 

“ You — you would be content to do that I” she said, 
in a trembling voice. “ You don’t love him, then ?” 

As she asked this question she came nearer to me, 
and, thrusting her face forward, examined mine atten- 
tively. 

“Yes, yes. I do. But not as you do, I think.” 

“ No. That’s always the way !” exclaimed she, bitterly. 
“ A man is ready to be trampled upon by a girl who 
doesn’t care a straw about him ; while for the woman 
who’s worshipped him for years he hasn’t a kind word.” 
She looked at me with an angry frown. 

“Why, what can I do more?” said 1. “Why do you 
look at me like that ?” 

She turned her eyes quickly from my face, and looked 
rather ashamed. 

“ To tell you the truth,” said she, “ I feel I almost hate 
you for not caring for him.” 

And suddenly her composure gave way, and she went 


MV CHILD AND L 


55 


quickly towards the outer door of the room, hiding her 
face in her handkerchief and sobbing bitterly. 

“Why, won’t you see him?” said I, following her, 
very much puzzled. She drew away from me as I ap- 
proached. 

“ No, I dare not. He doesn’t want me ; he wants you ; 
that’s the cruel part of it. If I were to take your place, 
he would drive me away with hard words and cruel 
looks. I know him !” 

And in spite of all that I could say to comfort her, to 
encourage her, she persisted in her resolution, and left the 
house without seeing him. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

This interview, painful as it was, relieved my mind of 
one of the anxieties which had preyed upon me lately. 
This poor woman, whom I had been taught to dread, was 
not in herself such a formidable person after all. It was 
in her relation to me and to the man whom I had sup- 
posed to be my husband that her terrors lay ; and the 
discovery of my unfortunate position had been so much 
discounted by the fears which had tormented me of late 
that I could not realize properly my unhappy situation. 

My visitor had scarcely gone before I heard my hus- 
band’s feeble voice trying to call me. He asked if there 
had not been some one talking to me in the next room, 
I thought it better not to disturb him by telling him the 
truth, so I said it was some one in search of apartments, 
and he was satisfied. He seemed better after his sleep, 
and when I had made him take some nourishment, he 
asked me to prop him up and to give him a pencil and a 
sheet of note-paper. With some difficulty he then wrote 
a letter, and he was folding it up and putting it into its 
envelope, which he had not yet directed, when his friend 
Tom Hertz came back again to see him. No doubt he 
got his friend to direct and to post the letter, for I saw 
no more of it. When his friend had left him for the 
night, however, my husband took my hand in his as I 
sat beside his bed, and said, in a husky whisper, so that 
I had to bend my bead to listen, — 


56 


MY CHILD AND I. 


poor little Perdita, I shall have to leave you 
very soon. So I am sending for another protector — and 
I hope a better one — for my poor little wife. My aunt’s 
a queer body, but I think she’ll be kind ; 1 don’t think 
any one could help being kind to you, my poor child.” 

But [, far from being reassured by these kind words, 
felt a sudden pang of alarm. I did not want to see a 
strange lady ; 1 felt that I would rather, if 1 must, go 
back to the aunt of whom I knew the worst than to this 
stranger, upon whose kindness 1 had no real claim. I 
tried to protest, but he only smiled, and said that he must 
have his own way in this. 

I heartily hoped that his letter would meet with no 
response ; but the very next day a very quiet brougham 
drove up to the door, and Sarah, with considerably more 
respect than she had shown to my previous visitor, ush- 
ered into my sitting room a very tiny and remarkably 
thin lady, dressed with ostentatious simplicity and even 
shabbiness, with a little dried-up, expressionless face, who 
advanced straight into the room, and looking at me from 
head to foot with the careful and intelligent scrutiny one 
would bestow upon a rare animal at the zoological gar- 
dens, gave me a cold little nod, and said, — 

“You are the Perdita my nephew writes about, I 
suppose ?” 

She spoke in a peculiarly hard and rasping voice, vhich 
I supposed to be assumed especially for my benefit, but 
which I afterwards found was her natural tone. Her 
tone and manner irritated me exceedingly, and I an- 
swered, very coldly, — 

“ Yes. I)o you wish to see your nephew ? He is in 
the next room.” 

Still following me about with the same persistent and 
apparently vacant stare, my visitor answered, shortly, — 

“ 1 should like to talk to you first, since it was about 
you that he wrote to me. You carry matters with a 
lugh hand, I see, considering your position. I notice 
that my nephew writes of you as his wife ; but this is 
not the case, 1 believe?” 

Surely my own aunt’s unkindness was nothing to the 
absolute brutality of this new “ friend.” I answered in 
a voice which I could scarcely control for the rage in my 
heart. 


MY CHILD AND L 


57 


‘‘So I learnt yesterday for the first time. /or the first 
time^ you understand. And so, bein^ absolutely no rela- 
tion to me whatever, you have no right to talk to me in 
this tone.” 

She looked at me in exactly the same exasperating 
manner as before, and said. — 

“You are wrong and foolish to give way to passion in 
this manner. 1 have come here to befriend you; but 
there is no good to be obtained by shutting our eyes to 
facts.” 

“ How can I shut my eyes to facts ?” I cried, impa- 
tiently. “ Is my position the sort of thing a woman can 
shut her eyes to ?” 

“ Indeed, I think not. But you seem to rather ignore 
it.” 

The slight increase of asperity in the lady’s manner 
showed me the view she took of the matter. 

“I don’t think you understand, or else I’m afraid you 
don’t believe what I told you, that I believed until yes- 
terday morning that 1 was really his wife.” 

But she was quite unimpressed by this asseveration. 

“ Oh, yes ; I understood that he went through a form 
of marriage with you.” 

“ Then how could I know it was not a real marriage ?” 
said I. boldly. 

“ Well, I don’t say you could ; but that makes no dif- 
ference to the fact that you are not a wife. You seem to 
treat the matter with great levity.” 

“And you seem to think that I ought to be as much 
ashamed of myself as if it had been my fault,” re- 
torted I. 

“ Certainly 1 had expected a more modest manner, 
from the accounts my nephew gave of you,” said my 
visitor, drawing in her lips very tightly. “ Indeed, I 
should have thought better of you, I must own, if, when 
you discovered your mistake, you had left him, and 
allowed the woman whom he deserted for you to take her 
place — what I consider her rightful place — by his side.” 

“Well, I offered to. She came here yesterday, and I 
had a long talk with her, and said she could come, and I 
would go away. But she said that he would be unhappy 
if I did so. and so, of course, I stayed.” 

But my hearer was scandalized. 


68 


MV CHILD AND L 


“ You had a long talk with her !” she exclaimed, with 
horror. “ Really, 1 should have thought your sense of 
delicacy would have prevented such a meeting!” 

But how could I help myself? She came in, and I 
couldn’t help seeing her, any more than I could help 
seeing you. And if you think me such an abandoned 
creature, how can a trifle like that matter ?” 

I have not been brought up to regard womanly deli- 
cacy and modesty and honour as trifles,” said my visitor, 
severely. “ Perhaps you consider it a trifle that your 
child — you are going to have a child, I believe ? — will be 
unable to bear his father’s name.” 

Now this detestable woman had touched what was now 
my only real grief. My face changed, and I sank trem- 
bling and cold and on the verge of weeping on to a seat. 

I can’t help thinking that my visitor felt rather glad 
that she had reached a vulnerable spot at last. However, 
she said, or rather snapped, ‘‘ Don’t cry ; there is no need 
to cry,” an assurance which, of course, had little effect 
upon me. She became rather impatient, I think, when 
I did not answer, but, grasping the side of my chair, 
began to pant and to shiver, and to give all the symp- 
toms of being on the verge of a fainting-fit. At any 
rate, I suddenly found a scent-bottle thrust under my 
nose with great abruptness. 

There is no necessity for all this. And I assure you 
I consider it partly affectation,” said my visitor, while I 
struggled to recover myself 

During this interval I had heard the voice of Tom 
Hertz in the next room, talking and laughing very loudly 
to my husband, with the intention, I felt sure, of drown- 
ing our voices. I sat up, and gently pushed the smelling- 
bottle away. My visitor closed it with a sharp snap and 
sat down. 

“ To show you how silly you have been in treating me 
as if I were anything but your friend,” she went on, in 
those hard, dry tones which precluded all idea that she 
could have any real sympathy for me, “ I came here to- 
day with the express intention of telling you that I am 
going to adopt your child. By this I don’t mean merely 
that I will look after it, but I will take it altogether, and 
educate and provide for it exactly as if it were a legiti- 
mate member of my family.” She said all this very 


MY CHILD AND L 


59 


deliberately, having evidently made up her mind upon 
every point, and being fully conscious of the great gen- 
erosity of her offer. “ The only condition 1 make is that 
you will go, as soon as my nephew is dead, if you are 
determined not to go before, into a ‘ Home’ of which 1 
am one of the patronesses, which has been founded by 
some benevolent persons expressly for young persons in 
your unfortunate situation.” 

I was aghast at the effrontery, the brutality of this 
speech. But in a few moments the ludicrous side of 
her proposal struck me, and I burst into half- hysterical 
laughter. 

“ Eeally, it is too ridiculous. I can’t say any more 
than that,” 1 said, trying to regain mj^ gravity. “ I 
suppose I ought 10 thank you, for 1 am sure your inten- 
tions are perfectly kind. But to begin with, the thought 
of having my child to care lor is the only comfort I have ; 
and, in the next place, the idea of treating me as what 1 
suppose you call ‘ a penitent’ shows so great a lack of good 
sense and good taste that you shock me quite as much as 
I shock you.” 

My visitor’s tiny face was so dry and so colourless 
that the only change brought about by my astounding 
words was a series of little twitching movements about 
each of her features in turn, and a change in complexion 
to a livid greyness. As she turned and walked to the 
door, she threw at me one more little sharp speech, — 

“ 1 shall pray that your heart may be softened,” said 
she. “ In that case, in spite of your unseemly behaviour 
to me this morning, I shall still be willing to receive you 
in a Christian spirit, remembering who it was that com- 
manded, Do good to them which hate you.” 

And, answering by a cold negative my question whether 
she would like to see her nephew, my visitor went down- 
stairs, got into her brougham, and drove away. 

My husband had heard his aunt’s voice, and was very 
anxious to hear what had passed between us, and why 
she had not gone to see him. Of course, I could not 
distress him by letting him know what had really hap- 
pened. I said that she had made me some very kind 
offers ; and, fortunately, he was satisfied with this, and 
seemed rather glad than otherwise that she had not 
thought it necessary to interview him also. 


60 


MY CHILD AND L 


In my natural endeavours to cut as short as possible 
our conversation about the lady, I forgot even to ask her 
name. We spoke of her respectively as my aunt” and 
‘‘your aunt.” I brooded over this visit, which had 
opened my eyes to the difficulties and miseries of the life 
which lay before me. I perceived, from the view taken 
of my position by this lady, that my case was far worse, 
in many respects, than that of the protegees in whose 
ranks she had wished to include me. For the “ fallen,” 
as they are called, who are willing to be patronized and 
])rotected, there is abundant provision of comfort, conso- 
lation, and very substantial assistance. There are many 
more rich women ready to help the fallen among their 
own sex than there are women ready to help those who 
have not fallen. This is proved by the ffict that any 
woman of bad character who comes into the police court 
can always have her choice of “ Homes” where she will be 
comfortably cared for, not to say petted ; while the hard- 
working and respectable girl, who has no interesting 
past to recommend her, gets no sympathizing friends to 
help her on her hard way. I could not help thinking to 
myself, after this experience of the professional philan- 
thropy of this well-meaning, middle-aged lady, that there 
was very little of Christ in the Christianity which could 
not do good without condescension, and where it could 
not condescend declined to do good at all. 

Two melancholy days passed after this visit, days 
during which my husband lay unconscious or asleep for 
long periods, and was too weak to talk much without an 
effort, which Tom Hertz and I would fain have spared him. 

On the third day I noticed a change in him. He him- 
self must have known that a crisis was approaching, for 
as the short afternoon waned he grew restless, and, con- 
trary to his usual custom, asked me to light the candles 
instead of watching the daylight fade away, as was his 
custom. When I had obeyed, I found that he had strug- 
gled up on his elbow, and, alarmed by his exertions, I 
ran to him and put my arms round him for support. 
He was looking at me very earnestly, and as soon as he 
felt my touch, he asked me, in a stronger voice than I 
heard from him since his illness, to kiss him. Then, still 
searching my face with a very keen and eager look, he 
said, — 


MY CHILD AND L 


61 


“ My darling, I have brought some trouble upon you, 
but I don’t leave you quite unprovided for, or quite with- 
out friends. I have treated no one else, Perdita, in my 
whole life, as well as 1 have treated you. I have loved 
you so ! More than you can tell. Say you forgive me, 
darling, if i have brought fresh sorrow into your life. 
You forgive me, don't you ?” 

1 burst into sobs which I could not repress. There 
was one sorrow, one wrong, which I had been brooding 
over all the time that I sat wat(;hing by his bedside. 

Yes, oh, yes,” I sobbed. “ I forgive you, Harry. But 
oh ! my poor baby, — my poor child who will have no 
name !” 

The words had scarcely passed my trembling lips when 
my husband sprang from my shoulder into a sitting pos- 
ture without any help from me. I looked up horror-struck 
at the effect of my words. With starting eyes and gasp- 
ing, laboured breath, he was struggling to speak, but the 
stammering words tripped on his tongue, and i could not 
make out one word of his incoherent outburst. 

While I was still, with one trembling arm thrown 
hastily around his shoulders, striving to understand 
something that he was striving still harder to make 
plain to me, a shiver seized him, he gasped, I heard a 
gurgling sound in his throat, and then a stream of blood 
issuing from his mouth told me that it was too late. 

He made one last effort to articulate, — in vain. A 
look of unutterable agony passed over his face, and then 
his head fell on my shoulder. 

I listened; I called to him. But he had left me: I 
was alone. 


CHAPTEK IX. 

I HAD scarcely found out that my husband was dead 
when Tom Hertz, who had never been long absent from 
his friend’s sick-room, arrived, and, seeing what had hap- 
pened, led me away into the next room. I don’t know 
what I should have done without him during the days 
that followed. He seemed to me to combine all the best 
qualities of a man and of a woman, so thoughtful, so 

6 


62 


MY CHILD AND L 


gentle, and withal so practically helpful was he. I soon 
confided all my troubles to him, but, to my great surprise 
and disappointment, I found that he knew if possible 
less about my husband’s family than I did myself He 
had been attracted by my husband’s fascinating person- 
ality at their first meeting, and had attached himself to 
him, in true Bohemian fashion, without concerning him- 
self in the least with his new friend’s antecedents. 

I sent him to make inquiries about tlie big house in 
Grosvenor Place which 1 had seen the first wife enter. 
Tom agreed with me in thinking my husband’s behaviour 
in his last moments significant enough to warrant me in 
seeking out his aunt, and in coming to a fuller explana- 
tion with her, both as to what she knew of the first wife 
and as to my husband’s family. 

This, however, owing to my not having ascertained 
the lady’s name, was no easy task. I was very much 
surprised to hear that the house in Grosvenor Place was 
in the occupation of no less important a person than the 
Duke of St. Ives ; and Tom assured me that I must have 
indicated the wrong house. I was puzzled, but not con- 
vinced ; even when my husband’s first wife came to see 
me again, and in answer to my questions vehemently 
denied having ever called at any house in Grosvenor 
Place, I could not believe that my own eyes had de- 
ceived me. 

Nellie, for that, the woman told me, was her name, was 
utterly overwhelmed with grief when she heard that my 
husband was dead. But she rebuked me sharply when 
I thus spoke of him. 

“Why,” said I, simply, “you cannot expect me to call 
him anything else. He married me, and I have only 
your word for it that he really married you before.” 

Apparently Nellie had been prepared for some such 
revulsion of feeling on my part. At any rate, she drew 
out of her pocket an evidently genuine document, a 
marriage certificate which showed that Henry Parent, 
bachelor, had married Nellie Styles, spinster, at St. 
Mary’s Church, Paddington, seven years before. She 
showed it to me very quietly, and I read it through and 
returned it without a word. In spite of my occasional 
doubts I could not help feeling that the testimony of my 
husband’s aunt was conclusive evidence of his marriage 


MY CHILD AND L 


63 


with Kellie, who went away quite as heart-broken as if 
the dead man had been the best and most faithful of 
husbands. 

On the evening of the day of the funeral, Tom insisted 
on taking me for a walk, “ to cheer me up,” he said. 

‘‘ And now, my dear,” he began, in his deep, gruff, but 
kindly voice, as we stood before a book-shop in Kew 
Oxford Street, he dipping into the second-hand volumes 
on the bench before him as he spoke, “ what are you 
going to do ?” 

For answer a tear fell down on to the weather-beaten 
volumes, a tear which I tf^ought he could not see. Eut 
he did. 

‘‘ This will never do,” he said, testily, as he slammed 
the book to and put it down with an air of fierce dis- 
pleasure. “ You’ve behaved beautifully all this time. 
For pity’s sake don’t give way now.” 

“ I — 1 — I’m not going to,” said I, feebly. 

“ But you are, you are going to. You’re doing it,” 
complained Tom. “ As if it wasn’t bad enough that I 
can’t do anything in the world to help you, without your 
making it worse by crying 1” 

You’re very good, Tom, very goodf” I faltered. “ But 
you needn’t be afraid. I shall be all right. I can draw 
well enough to teach now, and I shall be able to earn my 
living that way, I think. If not, oh, there are plenty 
of ways. I can look about.” 

But Tom was not satisfied. After a few minutes’ 
silence, he declared that he had an idea, but, as be re- 
fused to let me know what it was, I had to wait for my 
knowledge until the following evening, when he walked 
into my sitting-room with my aunt. 

I started up with the air of a tragedy queen ; but my 
aunt, whose heart had been touched by Tom’s descrip- 
tion of my lonely situation, and who had, I think, been 
visited by pangs of remorse on my account, burst into the 
room like a real ray of sunshine, would not hear a word 
that I had to say, and showed so much kindness and 
womanly feeling that Tom, who had only been prevented 
by main force from sneaking out of the room as soon as 
he had brought her in, was entirely charmed, and pro- 
nounced her “the most splendid woman in the world.” 

She wanted me to go back to the hotel with her, but 


64 


MY CHILD AND /. 


as I seemed to shrink at the idea, she did not insist upon 
it, but told me that, if I chose to stay where I was, she 
would come and see me every day. 

And so she did, during the five weary weeks that fol- 
lowed before my baby was born, showing herself always 
at her best with me, until she had well-nigh effaced the 
impression made upon me during my stay at the hotel. 

I cannot even now quite understand the change in her 
towards me. It may have been partly the result of 
self-reproach, or that she found the woman more inter- 
esting than the girl. At any rate, although she was still 
tyrannical, her tyranny was a kinder sort than before 
and she showed me much practical benevolence. The 
one point on which she still showed ail her old harsh- 
ness was in her judgment of my husband, to whom 
she could never allude except as “ that wretch,” in spite 
of my prayers. 1 think Tom, although he would not 
own it, had made to her some indiscreet revelations. 

There was one other subject of discord between us, 
but it was one so important that I avoided it as much 
as possible, doubting my own powers of self-control. 
When my child was born she looked upon the event as 
an unmixed misfortune, and my own extravagant joy 
excited her evident contempt as well as indignation. 
Indeed, she seemed to think that my delight was an 
affectation put on to annoy her. She constantly ex- 
pressed her pity that I, ‘‘a mere child,” as she said, 
should begin life with such a burden upon my shoulders, 
and she even hinted, in sufficiently open terms, her 
hope that the baby would not live. 

“ If— if — he — should — die, aunt,” panted I, struggling 
up on my elbow to address her in tones as fiery as they 
were feeble, “ I shall die too.” 

My aunt looked for a moment anxious as she glanced 
at me. It was for me, not for my poor baby ; and on 
my account she refrained from saying more. 

But the thought was always in her mind, and I saw 
it in her eyes. I heard it in her tones, too, when she 
remarked upon the improvement in my complexion 
since I was at the hotel, and said that really I should 
have some chance of doing well for myself now if 
only 

But with these gloomy views I did not sympathize. 


MY CHILD AND L 


65 


I was crazy with happiness. I felt that I had never 
indeed known what happiness was before, nor what love 
was, nor peace, as I lay with my little, helpless baby in 
my arms, marvelling at its exquisite loveliness, and telling 
myself that never, surely, since babies were first born into 
this world, was there a baby born so beautiful as mine. 
Every movement of the tiny creature, every cry, seemed 
to me a rev^elation of incomparable sweetness, waking 
in me undreamt-of sensations of delight, so that the 
world seemed transfigured for me by the advent of this 
small fragment of humanity which to every one else 
seemed such an unmixed misfortune. 

Although I tried to keep my raptures unseen by my 
aunt, it was impossible for them to remain a secret from 
her. The nurse told her about them, so did the landlady, 
both these women being touched by my happiness. My 
aunt grew impatient ; and at last, when she had surprised 
me in the act of administering an adoring kiss to my little 
son’s doll-like fingers, she “ spoke her mind” with all her 
old tartness. 

“Really, Perdita, I have no patience with you! One 
would think you didn’t understand your own position, 
or the child’s, to see the absurd fuss you make over it! 
I’m sure you couldn’t make more if it had been born 
the heir to a duke lorn !” 

“ Well, aunt, I couldn’t feel more than I do if my boy 
were a prince. He is going to be my joy, my consola- 
tion.” 

“ I’m afraid the joy will be all on your side, then. 
And perhaps he won’t be so much of a consolation as 
you expect when he knows ” 

“ But he need never know. Why need he ever know ? 
Besides, what you think may not be true. 1 don’t be- 
lieve it is true. 1 was properly married, in a church, 
and I shall have my child registered in his father’s 
name, of course.” 

“ Perhaps you. are not aware that there is a penalty 
attached to registering ille ” 

I interrupted her hotly. 

“ It has to be proved first that he is so. You don’t 
know it, nor do I. And I’m not going to be the first to 
put such a stigma on my own child.” 

My aunt’s thin lips closed in a straight line. She 
e 6* 


66 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


would have said more in the same strain, but the nurse 
was giving her emphatic warnings not to carry on the 
conversation. It is to be observed that this woman’s 
presence never put any check upon my aunt’s discussion 
of my situation. 

Whether it was in part owing to the constant irrita- 
tion of my aunt’s more or less concealed taunts I do not 
know, but on the day succeeding that on which this 
conversation took place I became very ill, so ill that 
they had to take my baby away from me. 1 had just 
strength to plead hard that he might remain near me, 
whimpering out, with tears rolling down my cheeks, 
that even his cries would not disturb me; but my 
entreaties were overruled by my aunt in the most per- 
emptory fashion. 

For days I hung between life and death, scarcely 
conscious for the most part, seeing all things around me 
through a mist, watching the slow-moving figures that 
approached my bed as they seemed to glide for a 
moment out of the darkness and then to melt away 
again, fancying I heard my husband’s voice and that it 
was always behind me, so that I was unable to see him 
himself And all the time I was haunted by a great 
sadness, a great void: it was my baby that I missed, 
though I did not know it. I only knew that my short 
dream of happiness had passed away, and that the little 
bit of sky that I could see through the window seemed 
to grow darker day by day. 

At last things became clearer, and I knew where I 
was and who the figures were that came and went so 
softly. My aunt, with a kinder face than I remembered 
last ; the old nurse, with a troubled look in her eyes ; 
the doctor, looking, so it seemed to me, less grave ; but 
this must have been fancy. 

Then suddenly, one afternoon (I remember that it 
was afternoon, and that a little flicker of sunshine came 
in through the window and lit up the clock, so that I 
saw it was half past two), I remembered everything : 
that is to say, I remembered my baby. My aunt had 
just come, and was standing in her bonnet and mantle 
by my bedside with a bunch of Parma violets in her 
hand, which she gave me, congratulating me upon the 
change for the better in my appearance. 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


67 


‘‘You will soon be all right again now/’ said she, 
kindly. 

I tried to get up, a delicious sensation of joy springing 
suddenly into my heart. 

“ Yes, yes. And oh, now I may see my baby, may I 
not?” 

For the moment, as I asked the question, and as all 
the joys in store for me which these words implied 
glowed within me, the whole world seemed full of life 
and gladness once more. 

My aunt’s face suddenly changed. The kindness went 
out of it ; the lips closed tightly again ; she put the 
violets down on the bed, with a strange air, constrained, 
ashamed, distant. 

‘‘I — I thought you had forgotten.” 

“ Forgotten ? Oh, aunt !” 

“Well, well, I mean You have been very ill, you 

know, and — I didn’t think you would remember so soon.” 

My aunt’s eyes were averted from me ; she spoke un- 
easily, irritably. For a few moments I stared at her, 
perplexed, full of dread, not yet believing that the hor- 
rible thought which had darted into my mind could be 
the truth. But then I saw the old nurse put her hand- 
kerchief furtively to her eyes and make a sign to my 
aunt. I stared from the one to the other. 

“ JS’ot — dead — my boy, my baby ! No, no I” 

Neither woman answered. With a little wailing cry, so 
feeble that it seemed to die away almost before it was 
uttered, I sank back upon the pillow, broken-hearted. 
He was gone, then, my consolation, my comfort, the 
little creature for whom I was to have lived, who had 
brought hope, and sunshine, and happiness back into 
my heart. The world was over for me, then : I wanted 
to die. 

I lay so still that my aunt was frightened, and I sud- 
denly saw her face bending over the pillow, with the 
stamp of considerable anxiety upon it. 

“ She’s all right,” I heard her say to the nurse, some- 
what testily. “ You are all right, Perdita, aren’t you ?” 

She was eager for my answer, I saw. 

“ Yes,” said I. 

But the tears were running fast down my cheeks. 

“Of course you are,” went on my aunt, in a voice 


68 


MY CHILD AND L 


which was not free from emotion. “And in a day or 
two you will be well enough to be moved, and we’ll take 
you away somewhere for a change. That will cheer you 
up, and in next to no time you’ll be yourself again.” 

“ Thank you, aunt.” 

My voice was choked. I could not look at her. For 
although, as I have said, there had been some trace of 
feeling" in her tones, 1 could not free my mind from the 
belief that she was not really sorry, that she was glad — 
glad that 1 had lost my baby. 

“ There’s a brave girl !” exclaimed she, relieved by my 
outward tranquillity. “ I told you, nurse, that she’d bear 
it better than you thought.” 

“Dear heart, so she do!” cried the nurse, in a low 
voice, as she came and peeped at mo in her tui’n. 

And my heart seemed to quiver and to leap up within 
me as 1 looked at her; for in the wrinkled face of this 
tiresome old woman I seemed to perceive more real grief 
for my grief, and sympathy with my misery, than my 
aunt was capable of feeling. 

“And very soon she’ll be able to see for herself that 
all things are ordered for the best.” 

But this was the one touch more than I could bear. 

“ Yes, yes, it is for the best,” I sobbed, in a passion of 
weeping. “For now I can bear anything, put up with 
anything; and I don’t care what becomes of me!” 


CHAPTEE X. 

My aunt was wrtmg: I never did become the same 
self again after the loss of my child. She said herself 
that 1 had become more brisk, more alert, I did not 
“ moon about” so much ; in fact, according to her views, 
there was an improvement in me all round. 

The truth was I was so desperately miserable that 
when I had recovered my health and at the same time 
got free from the heavy lethargy into which ill-health 
and my great sorrow had thrown me, I could not rest, I 
could not bear to be left alone with my bitter regrets. 
If 1 had only not fallen ill alter my child’s birth, I told 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


69 


myself, he would have lived: my care, my love would 
have kept him alive. I would not allow my aunt to 
allude to my loss : I got used to the sneers she only 
affected to check at my late husband ; but she soon 
understood that all allusion to my baby was forbidden, 
and she took the hint with promptitude. 

I had gone back with her lo the hotel, having, indeed, 
nowhere else to go to ; but here I proved conclusively 
that I was a very different person from the unmanage- 
able little girl of fifteen months before. I was so eager 
for occupation, no matter of what kind, to divert my 
thoughts, that my aunt’s feelings towards me underwent 
a great change, and she soon began to set as high a value 
upon my services as she had before set a low one. 
Among these services one not to be despised was the 
attraction I had suddenly begun to exercise, certainly 
without any wish on my part, upon the gentlemen who 
frequented the hotel. 

The time, little more than a twelvemonth, during 
which I had been away, had been sufficient to develop 
the overgrown, high-shouldered, gawky girl, with shy 
manners, abrupt, angular movements, and sallow com- 
plexion, into a young woman of considerable beauty, 
and, let me add, complete consciousness of it. I was 
glad I had falsified the disagreeable predictions of my 
childhood ; I was proud of my good looks ; I wished that 
I were better off, so that 1 could show them off to 
greater advantage by the help of dress. But this vanity 
sufficed for me: having assured myself that I was hand- 
some, and knowing that other people thought so, I did 
not care to listen to compliments upon my appearance, 
and I rapidly gained as great a reputation for my cold- 
ness as for my good looks. 

This attitude at first reassured, but afterwards troubled 
my aunt, who began to throw out at me sharply, worded 
hints about the folly of girls who thought too much of 
themselves, and who usually ended by outstanding their 
market. These observations were especially called forth 
by my treatment of a customer who had been attracted 
to the hotel solely by reports of the handsome girl to be 
seen there. 

William Bagstocke Keen was a man who was known 
to be “ something in the City,” who was known to be 


70 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


rich, and who was known to be horsy” in his tastes, 
and fast in his mode of life. He was a rather short, 
stout man of a little over forty, with black side-whiskers 
and very good teeth, who came into the hotel in a 
swaggering manner, talked in a loud, authoritative voice, 
and looked about him as if he was not used to squalor 
of this sort. He made no secret of the reason of his 
coming, but said, as I looked out of the little office 
window and asked him what he wanted, — 

So you’re the young lady IVe heard so much about, 
I suppose?” 

And he ran his eyes critically over those points of my 
face and figure which were discernible to him where he 
stood, much as he would have done over those of an 
animal who had been pointed out to him as a likely 
winner of the Derby. 

“ You want a bedroom and sitting-room, sir?” I asked, 
coolly, without apparently noticing his singular opening 
speech. 

He still continued to regard me attentively, this time 
through a gold-rimmed double eyeglass. 

“Eh! What? In this miserable hole ? While there’s 
the Metropole close by? Hot exactly,” said he, in a 
genial voice of contempt, still staring at me in the same 
persistent manner. 

“ I will send a waiter to you, then, for your orders,” 
said I, as I closed the little window, and retired to a 
corner of the little room in which I was unseen by him. 

But I heard him with considerable distinctness, as he 
stamped on the floor and swore at the waiter whom I 
had summoned by ringing the bell. 

“ D — , no, I don’t want anything. At least, yes, I do, 
and I want to speak to that young lady about it. But 
she slammed the window down in my face, confound 
her !” 

By this time his loud voice had reached the ears of 
my aunt, who came hurrying down the stairs, and, recog- 
nising a guest whom she considered distinguished, asked 
his pleasure in the humblest manner. But the great 
man was not to be soothed. He complained to her of my 
rudeness, told her that she should teach her dependents 
better manners, and, as I refused to obey my aunt’s 
summons and to come out and apologize, he left the 


MY CHILD AND L 


71 


house at the same white-heat, telling my aunt that she 
had lost a very good customer. 

Of course in the old days the consequences to me of 
such a scene as this would have been too awful to con- 
template. Even now I had to pass a very unpleasant 
evening. I had done her serious injury by my “ airs and 
graces,” my aunt said, and had sent away a man whose 
patronage would have been enough to make her fortune. 

As it happened, however, the great man did not stay 
away long. On the third day after his first visit he 
returned. Having the good fortune to hear his voice, 
talking to a companion, before he had opened the door, I 
promptly ran out of the office to summon my aunt to 
take my place. But Mr. Keen was too quick for me. 
He caught sight of me as I turned into the passage 
leading to the coffee-room ; and as I ran, he ran after 
me, and came up with me, a good deal more out of breath 
than I, just before I reached a door on the other side of 
the coffee-room, by which I had hoped to escape. 

‘‘Miss Farbrace, Miss Farbrace,” panted he, “don’t 
run away. I’ve found out who you are : I knew your 
father; and — and (confound it!” he muttered, in an 
undertone) “ I’ve — I’ve come to apologize, — though what 
for damme if I know. There, will that content you ?” 

“ Hear me, yes. I should think such an apology as that 
would content any one. It’s so absolutely unique,” said I. 
• Mr. Keen put on his eyeglasses. 

“ Upon my word !” said he. “ The idea of a girl like 
you putting on these airs to me, to me T he repeated, 
looking at me not so much with astonishment as with 
critical approval of the most disagreeable sort. “ If I 
didn’t take an interest in you through hearing that you 
were old Farbrace’ s daughter, I wouldn’t put up with it. 
For, let me tell you, you go beyond the privilege of a 
pretty girl. For you are a pretty girl, a d — d pretty girl, 
as I suppose they’ve told you before. Why don’t you go 
on the stage ?” 

The cool effrontery of the man was so astonishing that 
even I, with the reputation I already possessed for aplomb, 
was thrown a little off my balance. As I showed a mo- 
mentary hesitation in replying, he hastened to take advan- 
tage of it. 

“It is ridiculous for a girl as handsome as you are 


72 


MV CHILD AND L 


to waste her time sending one old buffer up to No. 7 
on the first floor, and another old butter to the second- 
floor back, and serving out cigars to a third. Time 
enough for that sort of thing when you are too old for 
anything better. Now, if you like to go on the stage, I 
can get you into the chorus at the Palatine Theatre ; and 
once there, with your face and figure, it will be your 
own fault if you don’t get on as fast as you could wish. 
Now, don’t twist that pretty little neck of yours so dis- 
dainfully, but think it over, and I’ll drop in again and 
hear what you have to say.” 

“ You can hear what i have to say on the subject now. 
I have no wish to go on the stage, but if I did, I should 
begin in a very different manner from the one you 
suggest. Do you wish to see Mrs. Morgan ?” 

Not I ! When I come to this hole, it is in search of 
metal more attractive than your revered aunt. The old 
lady is your aunt, isn’t she? 

“ Yes.” 

‘^Well, give her my compliments, and tell her that 
whenever she and her niece — and her niece, mind — want 
a box at the theatre or a drive down to Eichmond, I’m 
her man — and yours.” 

I chose to consider this as a farewell speech, and bow- 
ing, without further reply, I made my escape. 

i did not give the message of the objectionable Mr. 
Keen to my aunt, but he found an opportunity to make 
up for my negligence and to deliver it in person. Then 
began a regular persecution of me on the part of both 
of them ; my aunt contending that there would be no 
harm in my accepting his invitations, as she was always 
invited too ; Mr. Keen becoming a constant visitor, and 
teasing me with his unwelcome admiration, his flowers, 
and his theatre-tickets, until I threatened to leave the 
hotel unless my aunt absolved me from the annoying 
duty of answering his questions. 

1 had in my own course of conduct one very strong 
advocate in the person of Tom Hertz, who was almost 
as regular a visitor as Mr. Keen, and who showed so 
much annoyance at that person’s attentions that it was 
only natural for me to suppose that he was prompted by 
a feeling of jealousy. Indeed, Tom’s affection for me 
was so manifest that I could not help expecting some 


MY CHILD AND L 


73 


sort of avowal from him, and I own to a little feeling of 
something like disappointment when, after a prolonged 
visit during which he had grown more and more tender 
with every succeeding half-hour, he would suddenly 
spring up from his chair, thrust out his hand, say, Well, 
good- night, dear,” and hurry away. He began to show 
a great shyness with me, and very often he would come 
into the hotel, give me a smile and a nod as I sat in the 
office, and pass through into the coffee-room, where he 
would have his luncheon or dinner, and then sit writing 
for a long time, contenting himself as he went out with 
the same brief greeting as upon his entrance. 

On one of these occasions I followed him into the 
coffee-room, to get rid of Mr. Keen, whom I left in the 
hall talking to my aunt. 

Tom, who was sitting near one of the windows writing, 
rose, looking rather embarrassed, and offered me a chair. 

“No, go on with your writing, Tom,” said I. “I’ve 
only come in to escape from that horrid Mr. Keen.” 

Tom frowned. 

“ Is he still persecuting you, then ?” 

“ Worse than ever. I can’t put up with it any longer. 
I shall go away.” 

I saw Tom’s hand begin to shake. Without looking 
up, he asked, gloomily, — 

“ Where are you going to, then ?” 

“ Abroad, I think. I shall get a situation as governess. 
I saw an advertisement this morning. They want an 
English governess at a school in Germany.” 

“They’ll starve you,” said Tom, more gloomily than 
before. “ Besides, you’re not clever enough, and you’re 
too good looking. So your pupils won’t take any notice 
of you, and all the long-haired male students in the neigh- 
bourhood will take too much.” 

“Well, why not? Perhaps I shall find one to take 
pity on my loneliness and to protect me from attentions 
like those of Mr. Keen for the future.” 

“ Oh, very likely.” 

But Tom looked deeply pained, and, bending over his 
writing-paper, he began scribbling away at a great rate, 
while I leaned against the window-frame and looked out 
at the baskets of daffodils which a fiower-girl on the other 
side of the street was carrying. " 

D 7 


74 


MY CHILD AND L 


I heard some one enter the room, and 1 guessed with- 
out looking round that it was Mr. Keen. 1 waited until 
he was well in the room, and then turned quickly, mean- 
ing to escape behind his back and to shut myself into 
the office out of sight of the little window. But he 
heard my steps, and intercepted me. 

“ Hallo, Miss Farbrace I Funning away from me as 
usual, eh? ISTow, why can’t we be friends? Upon my 
word, you don’t know what you lose by not being friends 
with me. Here am I come to offer you — oh, and the 
aunt too, of course — a seat on my drag for the Derby. 
Ah, so you’d condescend to like that, would you ?” 

1 knew that my face must have lighted up involuntarily 
at his suggestion. The love of horses, of racing, was, I 
suppose, mine by inheritance. I confess that 1 longed 
to accept his offer, and I think he read my longing in my 
face. He uttered a loud laugh of triumph and mocking 
amusement. 

“Ah, ha I I’ve touched the weak point at last, have 
I? Well, I’ll take you, and give you the box seat too. 
But as it’s really more than you deserve, after treating 
me so badly, I must make one condition. You must give 
me a kiss.” 

“ Indeed, I shall not !” 

I gave him a look instead which showed enough re- 
pugnance, I should have thought, to extinguish his desire 
for the favour he sought. On the contrary, it seemed as 
if my unwillingness only made him more eager. 

“ Oh, come now, it’s a very small price I’m asking, after 
all. I bet you never got better value for a kiss before.” 

I made no answer, but watched for an opportunity of 
escape. But he guessed my intention, and opposed it in 
a practical manner by interposing his person between 
me and the door. Putting his head on one side with an 
air of great shrewdness, he began to utter a low, chuck- 
ling sound, looking at me at the same time in a way 
which seemed to me particularly offensive. 

“Perhaps you don’t like being kissed? You’re not 
going to tell me you’ve had no experience? Because, 
you see, I know better. Now, why do 3 ’ou treat my 
attentions with so much scorn, eh. Miss Farbrace ?” 

“ The attentions of a married man are not flattering, 
Mr. Keen.” 


MY CHILD AND L 


75 


“ Oh, that’s it, is it ? You were not always so particu- 
lar, by what I have heard,” he answered, frowning and 
speaking very angrily. 

I grew very cold, and I dare say very white ; for Mr. 
Keen, looking at me, had apparently a twinge of com- 
punction. 

“ I had no wish to annoy you, Miss Farbrace, I assure 
you,” he said, apologetically, thrusting his red face, with 
its odious expression of bold admiration, insinuatingly 
near to mine, “ but really it’s coming it a little too strong, 
you know, to put on these sanctimonious airs to me, 
when I heard you myself tell your aunt one day that 
you were going to visit a certain little grave.” 

A little cry broke from me in spite of myself. There 
was the noise of a chair thrown down, and Tom Hertz 
strode up to where we were standing. I don’t know 
how much he had heard of my talk with Mr. Keen, 
which had been carried on for the most part in under- 
tones. But he was white with anger. 

“ If this person is annoying you. Miss Farbrace, I will 
take upon myself the responsibility of relieving you of 
his presence,” said Tom. 

And pray, sir, who are you ?” asked Mr. Keen, in a 
bawling, blustering tone. 

“ I was one of the most intimate friends of this lady’s 
first husband,” said Tom, thereby earning my deepest 
gratitude. 

Mr. Keen gave an incredulous ckuckle. 

“ Miss Farbrace’s late husband f Hot, by any chance, 
part proprietor of the little grave ?” 

Mr. Keen, although not tall, was a robust and muscu- 
lar man. The next moment, however, he was lying at 
full length upon the carpet. 

“ Go away, dear,” said Tom to me, gently. “ I’ll get 
the brute to apologize.” 

Just giving my hand for a moment to Tom, with my 
eyes too full of tears to see him, I ran out of the room. 

Tom kept his promise to the letter. Within half an 
hour he brought to me a letter from Mr. Keen, apolo- 
gizing in the humblest manner for having annoyed me, 
and explaining that the fact of my being still known as 
Miss Farbrace, coupled with some reports he had heard 
and some words 1 had used in his hearing, had led him 


76 


MY CHILD AND L 


into a most regrettable misconception. He added that 
he humbly begged to suggest that it would be wiser in 
me, whatever might be my private reasons for wishing 
not to do so, to use my married name, as a person of my 
attractions could not hope that any incident in her life 
could remain entirely unknown. 

When 1 read this letter, Tom Hertz standing by like 
a statue, I began to cry again. Tom was desperately 
moved by this, and began to shed tears too for sympathy. 

Oh, don’t cry, don’t cry. You wouldn’t if you knew 
how it makes me feel,” he exclaimed. 

And taking in his the hand which lay nearest to him, 
he kissed it most tenderly. 

“ Tom,” I cried, suddenly turning to him and drying 
my eyes, “ you seem very fond of me. You are, aren’t 
you ?” 

“Don’t ask me, child,” he answered, in a choking 
voice. 

“ Then why don’t you marry me, Tom, and save me 
from all this ?” 

“ My dear, my dear, do you think I wouldn’t if I could ? 
But I’ve got a wife already. I haven’t seen her for five 
years, and I hope I shan’t see her for another five ; but 
she’s alive, and so there’s an end of it.” 

“Yery well, then, Tom, that settles it. I’ll go to 
Germany.” 


CHAPTEE XI. 

My interview with Tom Hertz made me rather un- 
happy. I had felt so sure for some time that he was very 
fond of me that I had begun to grow rather fond of him, 
and if he had asked me to marry him, as in truth I had 
expected that he would do as soon as a decent interval 
had elapsed after my husband’s death, I should most 
certainly have said yes. 

It was perhaps more the feminine longing for some one 
to take care of me, some one to belong to, than a more 
passionate and personal feeling that I felt for him. For 
I certainly was more concerned for him than for myself. 
His feeling was so much stronger than mine : I could 


MY CHILD AND L 


77 


see this, and it made me ashamed and sorry. I felt that 
I was colder than I ought to have been, and that Tom 
had the wit to perceive it too. 

Certainly my grief at parting with Tom, when all my 
arrangements were made for going to Germany, was not 
nearly so keen as my sorrow at parting from the little 
mound in Kensal Green cemetery, which my aunt, after 
much persuasion on my part, had at last with great 
reluctance shown me as that in which my little baby 
had been buried. I tried to persuade her to lend me 
enough money to pay for a stone cross to put over it ; 
but this she flatly declined to do, giving as her reason 
that it would do me harm so to perpetuate the memory 
of a mistake in life which I was beginning to live down. 
I had to submit ; but in my heart of hearts there still 
remained the resolution to raise that little monument 
some day. 

So I went to Germany, and spent nearly flve years 
there, five years which I think of now only to be glad 
that they are over. The first part of the time I passed 
in a school, where I was, as Tom had predicted, over- 
worked and underpaid, but where I formed a friendship 
with one of my pupils, the daughter of an English horse- 
dealer, which had an important influence on my later 
life. From the school I passed into a private family of 
little wealth but much pretension, where I spent two 
years even more uncomfortably than at the school. My 
pupils were four clumsy and freckled little German 
baronesses, whose three clumsy little freckled brothers 
persecuted me with attentions which their mother was 
equally angry with me for exciting and resenting. 

I was ill paid, unhappy, and far from kindly treated. 
The coldness with which I had already been reproached 
became more marked in me : I began to hate the people 
around me, to hate my own life. It was at this point 
that I accompanied my pupils and their mother on a 
visit to Paris. It was not many years after the 
Franco-Prussian war, and a German name and a German 
face were still regarded with abhorrence by the Parisians ; 
the whole family wanted to go back almost as soon as 
they had arrived. 

But I had met, while out with my pupils, the English 
girl to whom I have before referred as my great friend 

7 * 


78 


MY CHILD AND L 


at the German school. She had come from England to 
Paris with her father on a visit, and both he and she 
begged me to come and see them at their hotel. I was 
delighted at the thought of spending an hour with a 
girl of whom I had been so fond ; and when the mother 
of my pupils refused me permission to pay this call, on 
the ground that it was not proper for so young a woman 
to go about Paris by herself, I thought myself justified 
in telling her civilly that I had a right to visit my 
friends, and that if she objected to my going 1 was 
ready to resign my situation. I left the baroness, who 
was very stout and very slow of speech and who received 
my announcement with apoplectic astonishment, and, as 
the hour had arrived at which I was off duty, I got into 
a fiacre and drove straight to my friend’s hotel. 

Mr. Babington, my friend’s father, was furious at the 
treatment I had received, and urged me to return to 
England with himself and his daughter. 

“ But,”" objected I, “ I shall be no better off over there. 
A governess’s life must be just the same all over the 
world.” 

“ Why not give it up, then ?” said he. 

What am I to do instead ? There are so few things 
that a woman can do.” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Babington, looking at me steadily, 
as if evolving some idea which had been for some time 
hovering indistinctly in his mind, “7 could find you some- 
thing to do, only I don’t know whether you’d care to 
do it.” 

“ Yes, yes, what is it ?” said I, eagerly. 

But still he hesitated to declare his project, and both 
his daughter and I were dying of curiosity and impa- 
tience before he at last disclosed it. Then I was sur- 
prised, and his daughter was shocked. Mr. Babington 
wanted a young woman with a good figure and a good 
seat on horseback, to ride horses to show them off. 

There, I said you wouldn’t hear of it !” he exclaimed, 
in an apologetic tone, while his daughter gave vent to 
her feelings of indignation very strongl}^, and I sat 
looking at the table-cloth without saying anything. 
“But really I’ve said nothing you need be offended at. 
Some girls might like teaching better; on the other 
hand, some might not.” 


MV CHILD AND 1. 


79 


“And I’m one of the girls who might not, Mr. Bab- 
ington,” said I, as I rose from my chair, almost trem- 
bling with excitement. “ I thank you very much for 
making me the offer, and I accept it with delight. 
Lilly, don’t be shocked. You don’t know how much 
nicer companions English horses are than German baron- 
esses !” 

A fortnight later I had resigned my engagement with 
the baroness and was again in England. 

My aunt professed to be much shocked at my change 
of profession, and predicted a downward career of the 
most dreadful kind. But, unutterably weary of the 
dull years I had passed, the drawbacks to my new mode 
of life seemed trifling, and I was happier than I had 
been since my father’s death eight years before, I bad 
ridden well as a child, and I found no difficulty in re- 
covering this accomplishment, which was indeed the 
only one in which I ever excelled. As I looked my very 
best on horseback, I attracted a great deal of admiration 
of a sort which, while it flattered my vanity, gave me 
little real pleasure; and Mr. Babington was delighted 
with my success. 

I became the fashion. When I rode in the park, 
which was one of my pleasant duties, mounted on some 
beautiful animal which it was my business to show off, 
I was quite sensible of the attention I excited, and it 
was not displeasing to me to find myself surrounded by 
the best-dressed and most prominent men, of a certain 
set, of the day. Although 1 was only three-and twenty, 
it will be easily understood that the experiences through 
which I had already passed had increased the coldness 
with which I had in my earliest youth been reproached, 
and made me hard, self-contained, and almost cynically 
indifferent to homage, on which I set no more than its 
right value. 

One of my most enthusiastic admirers was a young 
fellow a year or two younger than myself, whom I 
therefore chose to regard as a mere boy. His name was 
Burgess Falconer. My attraction for him was strong 
enough to make him go a step further than the rest, and 
implore me to marry him. I only ridiculed his proposal ; 
but when I mentioned it to Minnie Babington, she re- 
peated my words to her father, and he took me rather 


80 


MY CHILD AND L 


severely to task, in his bluff manner, for neglecting a 
good thing.” 

“ Don’t you know,” said he, “ that he’s the step-son of 
old Keen, the owner of St. Martin, and that he’s sure to 
have some money when the old man dies, as he’s a great 
favourite with him ?” 

Kow, St. Martin was the winner of that year’s Derby, 
and his owner, I had discovered, was no other than my 
old acquaintance whom Tom Hertz, on my behalf, had 
so roughly handled. Hateful as the man had been to 
me, I must confess, absurdly perverse as it may seem, 
to a slight feeling of pride in having known a man who 
had attained what seemed to my friends and to me such 
a lofty eminence. 

Instantly I felt a new interest in Burgess Falconer for 
being his step-son. 

1 didn’t know that,” said I, ‘‘ and the fact is not 
enough to make me care to marry a boy like thut, 
younger than myself. But it is just enough,” I added, 
with a laugh, “ to make me a little more civil to him 
this afternoon.” 

I was to take part that day in a performance which 
was not quite to my taste ; but I had undertaken my 
'share in it at the request of Mr. Babington. 

Some half-dozen thoroughbreds were to be exhibited 
at the Aquarium, and I was to show off the paces of 
those two in the sale of which Mr. Babington was inter- 
ested. One of these was a beautiful bay mare, docile 
and easy to manage ; the other a handsome but vicious 
grey, which Mr. Babington was fond of declaring no 
woman but myself could have ridden. I had tried him 
in the sale-yard and on Hempstead Heath ; but I own 
to feeling rather nervous as to his behaviour when he 
should find himself surrounded at close quarters by a 
moving, murmuring, excited crowd. 

I drove to the Aquarium in a hansom, and found, as I 
had expected, the devoted Burgess Falconer waiting for 
me on the pavement outside. He was a tall, sandy- 
haired, rather heavy-looking young man, with a low 
forehead and light eyes. There was nothing about his 
person to attract me, and the charms of his mind I had 
had no opportunity of gauging, as with me he was 
always in a state of extreme nervousness which rendered 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


81 


him almost dumb. So that it was his fault, not mine, 
that I set him down as inoffensive but stupid. 

He blushed with pleasure at the sight of me, and was 
so overjoyed when I gave him a smile out of considera- 
tion for the fact that he was step-son to the owner of 
the winner of the Derby, that he was rendered almost 
inarticulate, and helped me to alight with a hand which 
trembled violently. 

“ You — ^you — you always look so 1-1-lovely in your 
habit!” he stammered. “I — I — Fve had a little whip 
made for you, pretty enough even for you, at — at — at least 
I hope you’ll think so. I told the man to bring it here 
this afternoon, but it hasn’t come yet. You — you — you 
will accept it, won’t you ?” 

“ You’re very kind, but ” 

‘‘ Don’t say but. You wouldn’t if you knew how I 
feel about you I” he murmured, bending his head to look 
under my hat, and not scrupling to make love under the 
very eyes of the cabman, whose interest, however, was 
embarrassingly evident to me. 

I laughed, told him I would see the whip and make 
up my mind then whether I would have it or not, and 
then 1 left him and entered the building. 

I was rather nervous when I made my first appearance 
on the pretty bay mare, for I had never yet taken part in 
an exhibition so theatrical as this. The narrowness of 
the space railed off for showing the horses brought the 
crowd of spectators so near as to be almost confusing, 
and although I knew that the mare would behave prop- 
erly, I grew still more anxious than I had been before 
as to the conduct of the grey. 

My first part in the programme went beautifully. 
The mare trotted, cantered, galloped, took her hurdles 
in a style that brought tumultuous applause both for 
herself and her rider, and stood like a rock while I 
fired a pistol over her head and under her nose. This 
was the part of the performance to which, as savouring 
of the ring and the sawdust, I had the most strongly 
objected. Then I trotted her quietly back through the 
dense lines of that particularly smart-looking, vrell- 
dressed crowd which any exhibition of horses or horse- 
manship always attracts, through a running fire of 
highly flattering criticism. At the very end of the lane 

/ 


82 


MY CHILD AND L 


I saw Mr. Babington, with his face set into that stolid 
gravity, only relieved by the shrewd twinkle in his eyes, 
which with him denoted high good humour. He gave 
me a nod as I drew rein for a moment. 

“ Good !" said he, in his gruff whisper. ‘‘ Do as well 
with the grey, and we shall do.” 

I just shrugged my shoulders and drew in my lips as 
I passed out. 

The uneasiness I felt on the subject of the grey was 
soon justified. He made his appearance, looking as 
handsome as a picture, and moving with a grace and 
spirit which took admiration by storm, but with a sus- 
picious look about his eyes and ears which we who knew 
him understood to mean mischief Mr. Babington felt, I 
knew, more apprehensive than he looked, as he leaned 
over the barrier, twirling a flower in his mouth, with 
appearance of entire unconcern. We got the trot and 
the canter over very well. It was a little difiicult to 
pull him up after the gallop, and the applause which 
followed the taking of his first hurdle, a splendid per- 
formance, excited him almost to frenzy. He took all his 
jumps in magnificent style, although I had a feeling 
throughout that it was touch and go between us who 
should be master. Mr. Babington had advised me not 
to try the pistol-firing with him unless I had him well in 
hand. 

But by this time I myself was as much excited as the 
grey; and spirit got the better of prudence. At the 
first shot the horse quivered under me ; at the second he 
reared so high that there were cries among the specta- 
tors : She’ll be off!” ‘‘ She’ll be thrown I” “ Ah I” 

He reared again and again, and I knew that the dan- 
ger of his falling back with me was a real one. But 
I am not a coward ; or perhaps the excitement of such 
a moment as that, with a crowd, too, to look on, gives 
courage even to the timid. At any rate, I remember 
that I felt no fear, only an excitement which was keen, 
bracing, and pleasurable. I could feel running through 
my veins the intoxicating sense of the admiration felt 
for me by the men of that well-dressed crowd at the 
firmness of my seat, the skilfulness of my handling of 
the spirited animal. 

‘‘ Leave him alone,” said I, “ I can manage him,” as 


Mr CHILD AND 1. 


83 


one or two of the bystanders would have got over the 
barrier with the idea of coming to my assistance. 

And I let them see that I could be as good as my word. 
Time after time I brought my whip down sharply upon 
his flanks, his shoulders. Time after time he plunged, 
he backed, he reared. The tussle was exciting, but it 
was short. He made several attempts to bolt with me, 
and to jump over the barrier into the crowd. Each time 
I frustrated his aimable intentions, and the struggle 
ended by my taking him down the narrow lane lined 
with excited faces, at an easy canter. 

“Bravo, bravo, my girl!” was Mr. Babington’s short 
comment. 

I disappeared with the grey, but the applause of the 
crowd was not to be resisted, and once more I rode up 
the lane, receiving congratulations the whole way. 

One voice, louder than the subdued tones of the rest, 
made me turn my head to the spot where my devoted 
admirer Burgess Falconer hung, in a worshipful, adoring 
attitude, over the barrier. 

With a curious sensation, which I cannot well analyze, 
but in which there was something of triumph and some- 
thing of disgust, I recognised in the man who stood 
beside him, stouter, more florid, better dressed than ever, 
my persecutor of more than five years ago, Mr. William 
Bagstocke Keen. 


CHAPTEE XII. 

Even in the very brief glimpse I caught of his face, 
from which I instantly averted my eyes, I saw in Mr. 
Keen’s countenance exactly the same expression of bold 
admiration which had caused me so much annoyance in 
the old days at the hotel. Now, however, I was older, 
more experienced, and I felt that if his persecution were 
to begin again, I should have no difficulty now in shaking 
off his unwelcome attentions. And yet, though it may 
be hard to believe, I felt all the time a secret admiration 
for him in his new character of owner of the winner of 
the Derby. 

I expected to meet my faithful Burgess on leaving the 


84 


MY CHILD AND L 


building, and I was not disappointed. Admiration of 
my recent feat with the grey had changed his com- 
plexion from pink to purple, and had rendered him, if 
possible, more inarticulate than usual. To add to his 
modest confusion, a group of other gentlemen, whose 
admiration for the heroine of the hour was more ephem- 
eral, were waiting round the door to see me come out. 
Burgess fell upon me like a timid hawk as soon as I 
appeared, and, stammering and trembling with agitation, 
held out a very long, very thin parcel, which he begged 
me to accept. 

“ Th — th — the whip,” stuttered he. “ You know you 
promised to look at it. You will take it, you will, 
won’t you ? I’ve got a hansom for you. Let me put it 
inside.” 

“But really, you know,” I objected, “I would much 
rather not. I know it is something very much too 
handsome for my use. This is the sort of workman-like 
weapon with which 1 do the trick.” 

And I held up the little shabby black whip, with the 
plating wearing off the mount, with which 1 had pun- 
ished the grey. 

“ If — if you would only let me have that in ex- 
change !” cried Burgess. “ In memory of your splendid 
riding this afternoon. I should prize it ; I should indeed.” 

This short colloquy had taken place, as I have said, 
in the presence of a knot of less-daring admirers, who 
found themselves quite out of the running with the 
persistent Burgess. I was standing close by the hansom, 
quite willing to give Mr. Falconer these few moments, 
being not insensible to the silent homage of which I was 
the object. 

Suddenly a loud, peremptory voice, which made both 
of us start, broke upon our ears, and a burly form, with- 
out the least ceremony, placed itself between Burgess 
Falconer and me. 

“ Prize it ! So I should think. But such favours are 
not given to hobbledehoys like Burgess, my boy.” 

And Mr. Keen, putting his head on one side in the old 
way, and leering under my hat in the manner which had 
so often filled me with disgust, took his step-son’s place, 
and in the most confident manner tried to grasp my 
hand and the whip it contained. But I was too quick 


MY CHILD AND L 


85 


for him. He was large, and heavy, and cumbrous in 
his movements. I was slight and agile as a cricket. In 
a moment 1 had stepped into the hansom, and leaning 
back in the seat, pushed up the little door in the roof, 
and told the cabman where to drive to. But Mr. Keen 
put his heavy foot upon the step, and the driver dared 
not move. 

“Just the same spirit as ever?” he asked, with genial 
effrontery. 

“Just the same old spirit, with more than the old 
savoir fairej' I answered. “ Take your foot off at once, 
or ” 

I raised my whip ever so little, and I suppose the ex- 
pression of my face did the rest. Mr. Keen retreated 
upon the curb-stone, with the casual remark that I was 
a d — 1 and no mistake. When I reached my lodging, 
however, my cumbrous admirer got out of another 
hansom which had closely followed mine, and by the 
time my driver had opened the doors from above, Mr. 
Keen’s face, florid, bold, and smiling, obstructed my view 
of the house-door. 

“ Allow me,” said he, as he stretched out his arm to 
save my habit from contact with the wheel. “ See the 
beautiful example I set you. Miss Farbrace,” said he, as 
he persisted in following me up the steps. “ I can look 
over a grievance of only half an hour old, while you 
can’t forget one that has been mouldering for the last 
five years. Won’t you wipe out old scores now, and be 
friends with me ? Your old objection, I may tell you, 
no longer exists. I’ve been a widower these three 
years.” 

I shrugged my shoulders, as if this did not interest 
me in the least. But Mr. Keen was not to be dis- 
couraged. 

“ In the mean time,” he continued, with a little more 
acerbity in his tone, “take my advice, and don’t have 
that fool of a boy, my step-son, hanging about you. 
He’s as poor as a rat, I may tell you, and will never have 
a farthing but what he gets from me ; and you may 
guess how much that will be if he does anything I dis- 
approve off.” 

I looked meditatively down at my old whip. 

“ I like him,” I said, simply. “ I wish I’d taken the 
8 


86 


MY CHILD AND L 


whip he offered me ; I’m sure it was much handsomer 
than mine. But you came between us, you know ” 

“Yes, I did,” said Mr. Keen, doggedly. “And I don’t 
apologize for it. I’ve saved you both from making fools 
of yourselves.” 

“ For the time, at any rate,” said I. “ Good-evening.” 

The maid had just opened the door, in answer to my 
knock. With a very cold inclination of the head, which 
checked effectually his evident impulse to follow me into 
the house, I left him standing on the door-step. 

Early next morning Mr. Babington called to see me, 
in the best of spirits. 

“Well, my dear,” was his greeting, “you’ve done me 
a good turn by your clever riding yesterday, and I think 
you’ve done one for yourself too. Mr. Keen came round 
to my place last night, praised the grey horse, the bay 
mare, and your riding, and seemed disposed for a deal. 
Then he asked which of the two animals you fancied 
most yourself, — for a lady’s riding. I said the mare, 
decidedly, and I added, what I remembered to have heard 
you say, that if you had a horse of your own, the bay 
was the animal you would choose. I saw that he looked 
interested, but I didn’t ‘ tumble’ till the servant happened 
to come into the room with a parcel ‘ for Miss Farbrace.’ 
It was a long, narrow parcel ” 

“ My whip !” cried I, with a laugh. 

“ Oho ! You know something about it, then ?” said 
Mr. Babington, with a shrewd look. 

I laughed again. 

“ If it was from Mr. Falconer, I know all about it,” said 
I. “ He offered it to me yesterday, but his papa came 
between us at that moment, and prevented my taking it, 
if I had wanted it.” 

“Well, you’ve set them both by the ears, then. And 
you will never get that whip at all now. For Mr. Keen 
flew into a great rage, and broke it up into three or four 
pieces. A pretty little thing it was, too ! He said he 
wouldn’t have his step-son playing the fool ; but I don’t 
know ” 

Mr. Babington hesitated, and looked at me out of the 
corners of bis eyes as if not quite sure what he might 
venture to say. Then he laughed a little, and observed 
that there was no making out such demure young women 


MY CHILD AND L 


87 


as I. And as I neither offered nor asked any explanation, 
he soon took leave of me. 

Half an hour afterwards there was a groom’s loud 
knock at the door, and I saw under the window a couple 
of horses, the one bearing a man’s saddle and the other 
a lady’s. The latter animal was the pretty bay mare I 
had ridden at the Aquarium the previous day. At that 
moment the servant came into the room with a note for 
me. It contained the following words : 

Dear Miss Farbrace, — I venture to send you the 
bay mare you rode yesterday, begging you to accept the 
animal as a little token of my great admiration and re- 
spect for you. I doubt whether she would ever be happy 
in the hands of any one else when she had once had the 
honour of being ridden by you. If you, in accepting 
this gift, would condescend to look with favour upon the 
donor, I should prove at least as docile and devoted a 
servant as she. I am sorry that, through my agency, a 
misfortune befell a whip which was on its way to you; 
but I will take care to replace it with one which I flatter 
myself will be more worthy of your acceptance. 

“ Believe me always, dear Miss Farbrace, 

“ Yours with all submission and devotion, 

‘‘William Bagstocke Keen.” 

Even at this distance of time from the old days at the 
hotel, I was glad to be able to take a little revenge upon 
my old persecutor. I sent him by the groom a very short, 
cold note, declaring myself unable to accept his offered 
gift, and adding that I did not wish for a new whip from 
him, but should be glad if he would send me the four 
pieces into which he had reduced the whip which he had 
intercepted on its way to me. 

If I had some malicious pleasure in sending this note, 
the answer it drew forth gave me even more surprise. 
It contained not only a declaration from Mr. Keen of 
devoted love, but an offer of marriage. At first I was 
paralyzed with astonishment ; then to astonishment suc- 
ceeded doubt, and to doubt indecision. What if I were 
to accept him ? 

The very fact of my harbouring such an idea may 
seem shocking, for it is true that, so far from caring for 


88 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


the man, I disliked him. Only those women who, from 
some cause or other soured before their time, have had 
to earn their own living for years amid uncongenial 
people, can understand the temptation which such an 
offer as Mr. Keen’s could have. I was poor, with no 
prospect of earning much by my own exertions ; I was 
fond of dress and of luxurious surroundings ; I believed 
myself too cold ever to care much for any man. If 
I had felt for Mr. Keen indifference only, and not dis- 
like, I should have accepted him at once. As it was, I 
sent him no answer, and, instead of taking this as a 
refusal, he became doubly as persistent, doubly humble, 
and enlisted both Mr. Babington and Minnie on his side 
before venturing to address me again, except by letter. 
When at last I met him, I had had time to consider him 
in a new light ; I was too old to think, as a girl does at 
seventeen, that there was in the world a peerless Prince 
Charming waiting for me somewhere. I understood by 
this time that you must take a man as you find him. 
And so the end of it was that I took Mr. Keen. 

Not until I had given my word did I understand how 
deeply one other person was affected by my decision. 
Burgess Falconer, whom I had looked upon as a boy, took 
his disappointment to heart as only a boy can. I was 
touched by this, more touched than I thought it possible 
for me to be by anything. I had an interview with 
him, and was shocked at the change in the florid face 
and burly frame. He looked quite haggard, and he re- 
proached me with a sullen bitterness which caused me 
some alarm. Nothing that I could say had any effect 
in softening him, or in causing him to take a reasonable 
view of my action. I pointed out to him that as he was 
entirely dependent upon his step-father, and as the latter 
would certainly have cut him off altogether if he had 
married me, he had absolutely no reason to be anything 
but grateful to me for what I had done. I promised 
that I would be a friend to him all my life, and that I 
should always be ready and anxious to take his part 
with Mr. Keen. But these remarks, instead of appeas- 
ing him, made him angrier than ever. 

“ You’re very good. I’m sure,” he said, in his usual 
stammering manner, and with a vicious look at me out 
of his light eyes. “ But the governor and I are very 


MY CHILD AND L 


89 


good friends, and I know him better than you do. Per- 
haps it will be you who will want my friendship with 
him some day. And it will be a bad day for you,” he 
ended, between his set teeth, as he opened the door to 
let himself out, “ if it does come to that. And so I tell 
you.” 

Of course I did not think much of this threat, but I 
was sincerely sorry to have made such a bad beginning 
in my new life. For Burgess’s influence was soon used 
against me in a way which I deeply regretted. He had 
a little step-sister, a child of five years old, Mr. Keen’s 
daughter by his late wife. Burgess contrived to set the 
child’s mind against me as an intruder, and worked with 
so much effect as to produce an impression upon little 
Meg which not all my care during succeeding years was 
able to efface. 

It was on the occasion of my first visit to my future 
home that I made the acquaintance of the little girl. 
Mr. Keen’s town residence was a large house in Kerr 
Street, Berkeley Square, with nothing in its outward 
appearance to distinguish it from its monotonously and 
decorous neighbours. Mr. Keen, who for me had decidedly 
improved upon closer acquaintance, being the most gen- 
erous and attentive of lovers, took me in and showed me 
over the house. When we had returned to the drawing- 
room, after an inspection of the whole house, I asked 
for his little daughter, whom I was very anxious to see, 
believing as I did that I should love the little girl as if 
she were my own child. Her father went out of the 
room for her, and, receiving no answer to his cry of 
“ Meg, Meg,” he went up-stairs again in search of the 
child. 

In the mean time I, left by myself in the drawing- 
room, moved slowly from end to end, looking at the 
pictures on the walls, and at the old china and curiosi- 
ties with which some enormous cabinets were filled. One 
picture, the portrait in oils of a lady, especially attracted 
my attention, as I supposed, from the period indicated by 
the dress, and also from the position which the picture 
occupied, that it must be the portrait of my predecessor. 
It represented, in spite of the benevolent flattery of the 
artist, a thin, plain woman, with a long nose, short upper 
lip, and retreating chin, of that particular type of ugli- 

8 * 


90 


MY CHILD AND L 


ness which has become associated with the English 
aristocracy. 

While 1 was looking intently at the picture I thought 
I heard a slight sound from the conservatory at the end 
of the room. Turning, I saw the cretonne cover of a 
chair which stood just within the room fall, and on 
stooping to look underneath I found a pair of great 
brown child’s eyes staring at me out of a very small 
face in elfish horror and astonishment. 

‘‘Why,” cried I, “is this Meg? Little Meg hiding 
under a chair? Come out, my dear child. What are 
you afraid of?” 

I had lifted the chair and disclosed the whole of the 
tiniest form for a child of five which I have ever seen. 
Out of a billowy mass of white muslin peeped a pair of 
great black eyes, regarding me with an unmistakably 
hostile expression. So striking were these dark eyes, so 
full of character, that at first I hardly noticed that the 
rest of the little brown face offered no corresponding 
beauties. Distressed to see the defiant look in the tiny 
countenance, I stooped and offered to kiss her, telling 
her to call me “ mamma.” But the child retreated with 
an ingenious serpentine movement, and shook her head. 

“You’re not my mamma,” she replied, promptly, “Bur- 
gess says you’re not. And he said I needn’t call you so 
unless I liked to. And I don’t like to.” 

Much troubled by this manifestation of ill-will on the 
part of Burgess, I did not attempt to approach Meg 
again, but, going back a few steps, I took down from 
the top of one of the tall cabinets a little porcelain group, 
and held it out towards her. 

“ Yery well, dear, you shall call me what you like,” 
said I. “iNTow will you come and tell me who these 
pretty little dolls are ?” 

But my tiny enemy was not to be cajoled. 

“ They’re not dolls ; they’re mamma’s china figures,” 
she said, sullenly. “ And mamma is watching you turn- 
ing over her things as if they were your own !” And 
she glanced up, with a pitifully puckered little face, at 
the portrait which I had rightly guessed to be that of 
the first Mrs. Keen. “ Burgess s s-said you would !” she 
ended, with a sob. 

I was utterly at a loss what to say to the child, whom 


MY CHILD AND L 


91 


I pitied and sympathized with most heartily. For it 
was the very way in which I should have liked a child 
of my own to cherish my memory and resent the ap- 
pearance of a successor to my place. I looked at the 
little creature with my eyes full of tears, not knowing 
in what way to try to break down the barrier which 
stood so formidably between us. 

The difficulty was averted for that time by the en- 
trance of Mr. Keen, which Meg took as the signal for 
running away; and I satisfied her father, who would 
have called her back, by assuring him that the child and 
I had just made each other’s acquaintance without an 
introduction. 

My wedding-day was already very near, Mr. Keen 
having insisted on the shortest of short engagements, to 
which I had no valid objection to offer. I had so much 
to do in the mean time that it was not until the day be- 
fore my marriage that I was able to pay a long-deferred 
visit to the grave of my baby-boy, whose short existence 
had left an impression on my mind and heart which no 
joy, no sorrow, could ever efface. Mr. Keen had treated 
me very generously in settling upon me, penniless as I 
was, a handsome income : now, for the first time, I was 
on the point of being rich enough to fulfil my cherished 
wish to erect a cross to the memory of my lost child. 

After spending an hour by the little green mound 
which my aunt had pointed out to me long before as the 
grave of my baby, I went to the office of the cemetery 
to make the necessary arrangements for the erection of 
the cross. I had to give particulars of the name, the 
date of the funeral, and of the person who arranged it. 
These details I gave as well as I could, mentioning Mrs. 
Morgan as the person who arranged the funeral, Harry 
Dare as the name of the infant (my aunt having told 
me that the ‘child bad been given his father’s name at 
baptism), and the date of the funeral approximately. 

The superintendent, having received this information, 
searched the register carefully, but without success. 
Then he told me that there must be some mistake ; he 
could find no entry such as I described, and he suggested 
that the burial had taken place in some other ceme- 
tery. 

“ Oh, no,” I exclaimed, impatient at what I took for 


92 


MY CHILD AND L 


his stupidity. “My aunt, whose name and address I 
have given you, showed me the grave herself.” 

The superintendent closed his book, and very cour- 
teously asked me to show him the grave which had so 
been pointed out. I returned to the cemetery with him 
and led him straight to the little mound, the position of 
which nothing could have made me forget. 

“ You are entirely sure, madam, that this particular 
grave has been shown to you as that of your child?” 

Of this I was absolutely certain. 

We went back to the office. The superintendent took 
down the register again, and referred to the grav^ which 
I had pointed out by the number. 

“Madam,” said he, in an absolutely assured tone, 
“ either intentionally or not, your friends have deceived 
you. The child buried in the grave you pointed out to 
me just now was a girl, in the first place, Maria Lans- 
dell by name, who died at the age of eight months, and 
was buried a year before the date you have given me.” 

This announcement, made with such startling sudden- 
ness, made me dizzy. 

What could have been Mrs. Morgan’s motive in thus 
deliberately deceiving me ? Quickly upon the heels of 
this followed another question : If he was not buried 
here, then where was he buried ? 

And then another thought flashed into my mind, one 
so intoxicating that I almost reeled under it : 

Had he never been buried at all? Was he still alive, 
something to love, something to live for, something so 
precious that if it were only possible to clasp it once 
more in my arms, rich husband, handsome house, dia- 
monds, horses, might go, for what I cared, to the bottom 
of the sea ? 


CHAPTEE XTII. 

I WENT back to Mr. Babington’s house, from which I 
was to be married, in a state of excitement to which my 
feelings concerning my approaching marriage were ab- 
solutely tepid. If, even at this hour, I could have had 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


93 


reasonable hope of finding my child alive, I should have 
thought little of throwing over Mr. Keen. But a reason- 
able hope of this was more than I dare indulge. There 
was no time to question my aunt, who was out of town ; 
I had therefore to put oif all inquiries until my honey- 
moon was over. 

I can truly say that on the following day, even while 
the ceremony of my marriage was taking place, my 
thoughts were fixed upon the hope of finding my child. 

We went abroad for our short wedding trip, but re- 
turned home, by my own suggestion, in time for the 
Doncaster September meeting. Mr. Keen, who was the 
most devoted of husbands, was terribly disappointed 
when I expressed a wish to remain in town while ho 
went to Yorkshire. I would not have caused him so 
much annoyance if it had not been for the crazy impa- 
tience I felt on the subject which haunted me. 

As it was, I had no sooner seen my husband oif at 
King’s Cross than I ordered the coachman to drive to 
Mrs. Morgan’s hotel. 

I had not seen my aunt since Mr. Keen’s proposal to 
me. I was therefore unprepared for her new attitude 
towards me, which was one of adoring reverence. I cut 
short her admiring comments on my looks, my dress, and 
my brougham, and leading her into the sitting-room from 
which I had helped Harry Dare to escape seven years 
before, I said, abruptly, — 

“ Aunt, what did you do with my child, my baby ?” 

This was, indeed, a bolt from the blue. My aunt 
turned ghastly white, stammered, but was unable at first 
to speak. 

“ You told me he was buried at Kensal Green ; you 
showed me the grave. I have been there ; I have made 
inquiries ; what you told me was not true.” 

“But, my dear Perdita,” said my aunt, recovering 
herself a little, “ I did what was for the best. Surely 
you must see it yourself How could you have got on 
like this, made this splendid marriage, with that story 
against you, with a baby too ? What could you do now 
but leave him where he is, even if you could find the 
child.” 

These words contained a germ of hope for me, and I 
changed at once from reproach to entreaty. 


94 


MY CHILD AND L 


Where he is I’^ I echoed, with almost a scream of joy. 
‘‘ Tell me, only tell me. I would give everj'thing I have 
in the world, position, everything, just to hold my boy 
in my arms again.” 

But at this my aunt was more alarmed than ever. 
She stared at me as if doubting my sanity. 

“What!” she cried. “You would give up your car- 
riage ? — your horses ? — your rings (My aunt, having 
seen through my gloves that I wore rings, had gently 
taken off one glove herself, and had gone into silent 
ecstasies over the diamonds my husband had given me.) 
“Just to see a child whom you wouldn’t even recognise? 
whom you wouldn’t be sure was your own ?” 

But my soul revolted at this last suggestion. 

“ I should know my boy if I were never to see him for 
twenty years 1” cried I, with conviction. 

“Well, I did my best for him and for you, and I’m 
sure I don’t know where he is now,” said my aunt, 
assuming a sharper tone as I became less arrogant and 
more tearful. “And what’s the use of beginning to 
worry yourself about him after all this time? When 
you will very likely have half a dozen more, too !” 

I shook my head. Strangely enough, I did not even 
hope to have another child ; all the passion, all the affec- 
tion of which I was capable had centred on the tiny 
creature which for a few short days had nestled at my 
breast. 

“ You must tell me just what you did with him,” said 
I, with more menace in my tones than I had yet used, 
“ and then I can trust to my own instincts to track him 
out. Now,” I went on, with feverish impatience, “ be 
quick, be quick. I have only these few days while my 
husband is away, and he may be home any evening, so 
every minute is precious.” 

My aunt looked more gloomy than ever. 

“ Mr. Keen would be very angry if he knew.” 

“ He is not to know — at least at present — until I know 
more myself.” 

Bit by bit, working hard for each link in the chain of 
the story, I got from her at last all she knew. It was 
not much, but it was enough to set me on the track. She 
told me that when I was taken so ill that I could no 
longer nurse my child, the landlady of the house where 


MY CHILD AND L 


95 


I was lodging suggested that a cousin of hers, a young 
woman who had just lost her own baby, should nurse 
mine. My aunt caught at the idea ; telegrams were ex- 
changed between her and the young woman ; and all 
was arranged in a couple of hours, my baby being taken 
down to the woman, who was the wife of a railway 
guard, living near a station on the Great Northern line, 
a few miles out of London. My aunt went on to say, 
hurriedly and without meeting my eyes, that the young 
woman had, in the course of a few days, written to ask 
whether she might adopt the child as her own. 

“ She was a very respectable young woman,” went on 
Mrs. Morgan, apologetically, “and I own I thought it 
would be much better for you not to start in life with 
such an encumbrance as a young child. So I arranged 
that she should have the baby.” 

I could not trust myself to speak. That my aunt 
should have witnessed my grief when I thought the 
baby was dead, without relenting and comforting me by 
the assurance that he was alive and well, seemed to me 
such an inconceivable piece of cruelty that I hated her as 
I had never hated her before, in the days when she had 
snubbed me and treated me unkindly. 1 began to draw 
on my gloves, unable to see what 1 was doing for the 
tears which had gathered in ray eyes. My aunt was 
very much more discomposed by my silent resentment 
than she would have been by a torrent of reproaches 
from me when I was only poor Perdita Farbrace. 

“You — you don’t bear me any ill will for what I 
did?” she asked, almost diffidently. “You would never 
have been the wife of the rich Mr. Keen if you had had 
a child to drag about and keep you down in the world.” 

“ No,” sobbed I, as I stopped for one moment at the 
door before going out ; “ I should never have been Mr. 
Keen’s wife. But — I might have been a happy woman !” 

I rushed out of the hotel, got into the brougham and 
drove back to King’s Cross station. In less than an hour 
I had got out of the train at the place indicated by my 
aunt. But I had little hope in my heart. Since my 
aunt had deceived me once, it was quite possible that 
she was deceiving me again ; and when my inquiries for 
Mrs. Brownlow failed, I felt tempted to give up a search 
which I began to think fruitless, and to return to my 


96 


MY CHILD AND L 


aunt, and threaten her with a lawyer’s interference if 
she did not tell me the truth. 

As a last resource, I was making my usual inquiry for 
Mrs. Brownlow, wife of a railway guard,” at a little 
nondescript shop on the very outskirts of the village, 
and had been met by a proprietress with the usual pro- 
fession of ignorance, when an old woman who sat knit- 
ting in a corner looked up and said, — 

“ Eh, but I remember her ! She lived in the cottage 
next to me and my old man. I mind her! I mind her! 
She died, poor thing. Ay, I mind her.” 

I was by the old woman’s side in a moment. 

‘‘You remember her?” said I, very gently, afraid 
lest incautious eagerness should frighten the precious 
memories away from the old woman’s brain. “ She had 
a little child, a boy, not her own ; she had adopted him.” 

She remembered this too clearly enough. 

“Ay, so she had, a pretty little fellow, but sickly- 
looking, I thought. She was as fond of him as if he’d 
been her own, that she lost, poor dear ! And when she 
lay a-dying — I mind it was Easter-time, and the prim- 
roses was still about the church at her bury in’ — she said 
they was to care for it as if it had been her own. But 
they didn’t, they didn’t! ’Twasn’t in nature perraps^ 
and them poor folks themselves.” 

“And what,” whispered I, softly, after a pause to get my 
voice under control, — “what became of^ — of the child?” 

The old woman had by this time found me out. She 
had borne children into the world herself, and her feelings 
were not yet so numb, after nearly seventy years of a 
toilsome life, but that she could recognise the tones of a 
mother asking about her child. She turned her wrinkled 
face to mine, and said, simply, — 

“ So he was your child, was he ? Why did you let him 
go?” 

“ I was ill,” sobbed I. “ They sent him away, and 
when I got well they told me he was dead. It’s only to- 
day I’ve learnt where they sent him.” 

“ Dear, dear, that’s a bad job !” 

“ But you can tell me — something ?” 

“ Not much, dearie, not much that’s any good. The 
husband’s mother had the managing of things after the 
poor thing died, and she found out the address of a 


MY CHILD AND L 97 

woman in some paper that wrote she’d be willing to 
adopt a child.” 

1 gave a smothered cry. To think that while I was 
breaking my heart over the loss of my baby, he was 
being sent over the country, perhaps to be slowly starved, 
to some wretched woman who trafficked in the lives of 
unwanted children. 

I could learn very little more. With some difficulty 
the old woman, who seemed nearly as much concerned 
as I, recalled to mind that the address in the paper to 
which they had written was in Upper Street, Islington ; 
the number she had forgotten, or perhaps had never 
known. 

“But,” she went on, with a warning shake of the 
head, “ don’t set too much store by that, dearie. For 
these women, when they are the wrong sort, go to 
work in roundabout ways, so it’s mighty hard to get at 
them.” 

The truth of this was already weighing heavily upon 
my soul. I kissed the old woman’s withered face, gave 
a sovereign to her daughter, and left the cottage with 
hurrying feet. 

My task was a hard one indeed ; so hard that I was 
tempted to despair. On reaching town, I drove in a 
hansom to Islington, and in Upper Street, when I had 
begfin to feel bewildered by the impossibility of making 
inquiries with such slender data to go upon, I had the 
happy thought of calling at a little stationer’s where I 
thought it likely that letters would be received. On 
asking if this was the case, the woman shook her head, 
and told me that she and her husband had given it up 
for some years now. 

“ Ever since,” she added, “ we found we were being 
used for purposes we didn’t approve of.” 

“What purposes ?” asked I, my heart leaping up. 

“Well, a woman used to have letters addressed here 
that we suspected to have something to do with baby- 
farming.” 

The shock of finding my worst suspicions confirmed, 
together with a sickly little gleam of hope afforded by 
finding myself really on the right track, was so great, 
that I sank on the chair by which I was standing. The 
woman looked at me curiously. 

E 9 


98 


Mr CHILD AND L 


“ Tell me all you know,” I faltered. “ I — I am trying 
to find my own child.” 

As before, I found that my woman listener grew 
sympathetic directly. She was not so motherly as the 
old woman had been, being more impressed, town-bred 
as she was, with my dress. 

I’m afraid you’ll find it very difficult, ma’am. These 
women change their addresses so often, and there’s a 
regular system of go-betweens. It’s like the Chinese 
boxes that always have another inside when you open 
them; you’re never sure when you’ve got to the last 
one.” 

“I know, I know,” whispered I. “But help me, if 
you can, to find the first.” 

Eather reluctantly, and evidently fearing that I was 
only starting in quest of disappointment and distress, 
she told me that it was now between five and six years 
since a woman who gave the name of Mrs. Jackson had 
been suspected by them. She remembered her address, 
and gave it to me. Whether the suspicions she and 
her husband had entertained of Mrs. Jackson had been 
proved by them to have a strong foundation, she could 
not or would not tell me. 

I went to the address given, but discovered, of course, 
that Mrs. Jackson no longer lived there. I was directed 
to an address in Camberwell, to which I immediately 
drove. Mrs. Jackson, I was told, did not see visitors 
except by appointment. With my suspicions strength- 
ened by this information, I had to be content to return 
home, considering what my next step should be. On 
the way, however, I perceived that further researches 
on my part would be useless unless I set some one to 
watch Mrs. Jackson. Much against my will, I had, 
therefore, to have recourse to a private inquiry agent, 
who arranged to have a watch kept upon the house and 
the persons indicated by me. 

For some days I heard nothing, and I lived in a state 
of acute excitement which it was hard not to betray to 
the eyes of my husband, who had returned from Don- 
caster, and who was jealous and suspicious to a degree 
which rendered complete happiness impossible either for 
him or for me. Unfortunately, his jealousy was retro- 
spective, and he could not bear any reference either to 


Mr CHILD AND L 


99 


my first husband, or to my lost baby, or even to the 
period during which I bad known them. I felt therefore 
that secrecy was forced upon me ; and, innocent as my 
concealment was, it made me uneasy, and raised up a 
barrier between me and my husband which he was not 
slow in perceiving, although he had no definite suspicion 
of any kind as to the cause. 

I dared not have the letters of the private inquiry 
agent addressed to the house, so I called every day at a 
shop where I was a constant customer, the proprietress 
of which had arranged to take in letters for me. On 
the fourth day I received a communication. The detec- 
tive had found no less than three women, living in dif- 
ferent parts of the country, who were in the habit of 
receiving children to nurse through the agency of Mrs. 
Jackson. The addresses of two of these women the 
detective had already procured, and he awaited my 
further instructions. I drove at once to the inquiry 
office and asked for the two addresses which were known. 
One was in Essex, the other near Birmingham. I don’t 
know why 1 at once decided upon the latter as the scene 
of my first investigations ; but I drove straight to St. 
Pancras, telegraphed home to my husband that 1 had had 
to go to Birmingham suddenly, — for the time for con- 
cealment was past, and I was reckless of anything but 
the success of my expedition, — and started for Birming- 
ham by the next train. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

If I live a hundred years, if I sink into second child- 
hood and lose my memory of every other scene through 
which I have passed, of every feeling which has ever 
stirred within me at other times, I shall never forget the 
shocking sights, the awful experiences of that day. 

I found the place easily enough. It was dusk when I 
reached it, a large, ill-kept modern cottage, standing by 
itself, but in the neighbourhood of several rows or ter- 
races of equally unattractive dwellings. How that the 
moment had come at last when I might indeed hope 
witn some reason for definite tidings of my lost child, I 


100 


MY CHILD AND L 


felt as if all the energy, all the strength which had sup- 
ported me so far, had suddenly died out of me, leaving 
me a poor, helpless woman, without the power to take 
safely a single step towards the recovery of her fugitive 
and long-lost happiness. It seemed impossible, after all 
these dull, purposeless years, during which those few 
hours spent with my baby had come back to my mind 
again and again as the one oasis of happiness in a 
chequered existence, I could again be on the point of 
holding in my arms my own child. It seems strange to 
me now that, guessing as I did only too well what the 
character must be of the creatures who had taken charge 
of my baby for gain only, I did not believe that it was 
dead. I kept picturing him to myself as neglected, thin, 
pinched, half-starved, perhaps, but I never lost the 
feeling, since my aunt first owned the deception she had 
played upon me, that somewhere in the world my child 
was waiting for me to find him. 

Yery slowly, and trembling from head to foot, I went 
through the untidy little garden, or rather court which 
was railed off in front of the squalid little dwelling, and 
knocked at the door. I waited a long time, and, hearing 
no sound within, I began to think the house must be 
empty. I stepped back and examined it more carefully. 
It differed in no respect from hundreds of the ugly 
modern substitutes for the old-fashioned thatched cottages 
which spring up in rows round every extending town. 
To the right of the door was a bay-window with green 
Venetian blinds. These were drawn down. But the 
two little windows of the upper floor had each a dirty 
curtain behind it, so that I judged the house must be 
occupied. I went back to the door and knocked again. 
1 rang the bell, but neither knock nor ring brought any 
answer. At last, looking round, I perceived that I was 
an object of silent interest to a group of people who had 
collected at a little distance outside the railings. 

At once I turned back with the intention of making 
some inquiries among them. But, to my surprise, as 
soon as they saw me move in their direction they dis- 
persed as if at a given signal, and I saw them go, some 
into the neighbouring cottages and some along the road. 

This fact at once aroused my suspicions that I was on 
the right track, and that the house was not only occupied, 


MY CHILD AND L 


101 


but occupied by miserable and half-starved children. 
Then the weakness which had seized me passed away, 
giving place to a frenzy of determination that I would 
get inside the house if I had to break my way in like a 
thief. Once more I rang and knocked. Then, passing 
out by the gate, I made my way round to the back up a 
little court which divided the house from its nearest 
neighbour on the right. 

Behind the house was another yard, bigger than that 
in the front, partly paved, and shut in by the shed of a 
wheelwright on one side and by the backs of some out- 
buildings on the other two sides. I got in easily enough 
through a back gate in the side wall, but found my 
further progress barred, for the back-door of the house 
itself was locked. 

Looking through the kitchen window, which was 
barred, I saw further evidence that the house was in- 
habited, in scraps of food, some dirty plates, and a can 
which stood on the table. But the fire was out, and 
there was no one in the room. Peering close against 
the glass to ascertain these things, my attention was 
attracted by a faint sound which seemed to come from 
one of the upper rooms. It was like a moan. I stepped 
back, cold and with an agony of fear at my heart. For it 
came into my mind that the weak voice I heard might 
be that of my child. I tried to burst the back-door 
open : it was bolted, as far as I could make out, at the 
top and at the bottom, and would not yield. 

The noise I made attracted the attention of some of 
the shy neighbours ; and a woman, one of those 1 had 
seen before, peeped through the door of the yard at me, 
but quickly withdrew her head when she saw that I 
was looking at her. Determined not to be baffled this 
time, I started in pursuit, and followed her down the 
court and into an adjacent yard. 

Do you know if a Mrs. Finney lives in that house ?’^ 
I asked, before she could take refuge within the doors 
of her own house. 

‘‘ Yes, I believe she does,” said the woman, shortly. 
‘‘ But we’re not partic’lar neighbourly, for they haven’t 
been here long, an’ I’m one as keeps myself to myself.” 

The woman, a respectable-looking person of about 
thirty, anticipated my questions. 

9 * 


102 


MY CHILD AND L 


Do you know if there’s any one in the house, — any 
grown-up person, I mean ?” said I, quickly. 

I don’t know, but I think it’s likely not,” said the 
woman, more shortly. I see Mrs. Finney go out this 
afternoon pretty early. I don’t know her business, of 
course, but I haven’t seen her come back. When she 
goes away like that, she mostly comes back late.” 

Struck by the dryness of the woman’s tone, I put a 
question suddenly : 

“ She takes in children, does she not ?” 

The woman answered, more dryly than ever, — 

‘‘ May do, for all I know.” 

I’m trying to find a child, — my own,” I said, with 
my voice breaking. 

The woman looked at me differently at once, but was 
still cautious. 

“Well, you can’t make her hear if she’s not there,” 
she said, after a moment’s pause. 

But I want to get in — to see for myself — to find — to 
find him,” said I, in a husky whisper. 

The woman drew back again : she seemed anxious 
not to compromise herself. 

“Well, you can’t break into a person’s house,” she 
said, hastily. 

“I can. T will. I will do anything,” I returned, 
feverishly. 

But at this point she evidently became anxious to get 
rid of me. 

“ Oh, well, you can’t expect me to help you to do that,” 
she said, as she made a pretext of picking up an old 
yard-broom to carry it in-doors. 

“ But,” said I, detaining her, “ will you let me take 
these steps, if I promise to bring them back again ?” 

But she was very unwilling indeed. 

“ Oh, my goodness !” cried she, with much vexation, 
“I’d rather not. I wish you wouldn’t. I do dislike 
being mixed up in any rows with my neighbours. And 
my husband’s ten times as bad as me. I don’t know 
what he’d say if he was to come back and find I’d lent 
the steps for any one to go poking their nose into any- 
body else’s house when they was away.” 

But I still thought, notwithstanding her reluctance, 
that she would not go so far as to refuse me out- 


Mr CHILD AND I. 


103 


right. So I went towards the steps, and said, in a low 
voice, — 

“ Did you ever have a child ?” 

For a moment the woman still hesitated. Then, nod- 
ding towards the steps, she said, “ Take ’em,” and dis- 
appeared abruptly into the house. 

I did not lose a moment. Dragging the steps through 
the two door- ways into Mrs. Finney’s back yard, I placed 
them in front of the kitchen window, and getting up to 
the very top, looked in through the window above. 

The first sight which met my eyes was so weird, so 
ghastly, that, prepared as I was for painful experiences, 
I uttered an exclamation of horror. At the moment my 
figure, rising above the steps, obscured the dim twilight 
that came into the room through the dirty window, a 
little, thin, white face rose slowly from within until it 
was close to the glass, and two great eyes, sunken in 
their sockets, stared at me, not in fear, not in childish 
wonder, but with a dull, elfish gaze that seemed to see 
without discerning. 

Open, open the window,” cried I, impatiently. 

At first there was no response to this ; then, after a 
long pause, during which I trembled too much to try to 
help the child on my side, two poor, thin little hands, 
dry, small, and withered, like bird’s claws, were lifted 
slowly upwards. Meanwhile, I perceived behind the 
child a second figure, smaller than the first, raising itself 
with apparent difficulty until it was able to support its 
feeble frame against the window-sill beside its com- 
panion. 

Though the emotions which thrilled me were so strong 
that I could scarcely restrain myself from weeping 
aloud, I had recovered enough self-command to try to 
open the window from the outside, a task which was 
evidently far beyond the strength of the poor mite 
within, even if he had understood how to set about it, 
which was doubtful. Luckily, it was not fastened; for 
the catch was broken. 

As I threw up the sash and peered into the room, the 
atmosphere of which was so heavy and close that I in- 
stinctively drew my head back to take a long draught 
of fresh, outside air before attempting to enter, I saw 
that the room had other occupants, as wan, pinched, and 


104 


MV CHILD AND L 


sickly as the rest. Five miserable children, of whom 
only the boy I had first seen was able to walk, were 
cooped up together in the wretched room, the only fur- 
niture of which consisted of a filthy mattress in one 
corner, on which the three youngest children lay. 

When I stood on the fioor of the room, and realized 
the full extent of the vile conduct of the creatures who 
had penned up these poor mites in the den in which I 
found them, passionate indignation and pity filled my 
heart, and there was no room in it for any other feel- 
ing. 

In that moment, for the first time since I began my 
search, I forgot my own child. I could think of nothing 
but the wrongs of the tiny creatures before me, unwashed, 
ill clothed, half starved, whose pitiful moaning never 
ceased, even in the disturbance caused by my entrance. 

I knelt down by the eldest child, the boy I had first 
seen at the window. He was very small and weak and 
wasted, and so spiritless that, although his eyes remained 
fixed upon me with a sort of dumb, dull expression of 
expectancy which I can scarcely call hope, he never 
spoke to me. His face, although so small, was old for 
his years, even if, as seemed probable, his growth had 
been stunted by the want of proper food. A horrible 
pang shot through my heart as I asked myself whether 
this could be my own boy, this poor, little, unwashed 
starveling with the cavernous eyes. 

“ How old are you, my child ? What is your name ?’’ 
I asked, as well as I could for crying. 

But he seemed not to understand. When I repeated 
my question, however, he put his poor, little, thin hand 
on my shoulder, and I thought he tried to smile at 
me ; but my eyes were too full of tears for me to be 
sure. 

“ Are you all alone in the house ? Where are the — 
the r 

I stopped, not knowing how to describe fitly the cus- 
todians of these poor babes. I turned to the others. 
One of them lay in a corner of the horrible couch, with 
its eyes closed, moaning feebly. Another was sucking 
hard at the tube of an empty and evil-smelling feeding- 
bottle. Of the two remaining children, one, dressed 
solely in a ragged pinafore, was sitting on the floor, weakly 


MY CHILD AND L 


105 


crying at intervals ; while the second I had seen, appar- 
ently a new-comer, for it was less emaciated than the 
rest, crawled after me along the dirty floor. 

I began to feel that if I stayed much longer in the 
presence of these unhappy babes I should lose the wits 
I had need of for their rescue. I had gently raised in 
my arms the little thing who was crying on the floor, 
but the sight of the haggard, elfish face struck me with 
so much horror that the lisping baby-talk died upon my 
lips, and I could only sob in sympathy as I pressed the 
poor head against my breast. When I tried to put it 
down, the creature clung to me with its claw-like fingers, 
and burst into fresh cries. 

“ Don’t cry ; don’t cry,” I whimpered out ; I am go- 
ing to get you something to eat ; going to fetch some one 
who will take you out of this dreadful place, and be kind 
to you, kind to you, poor, little babies !” 

Gently I disengaged myself from the still weeping 
child, and was about to go away as I had come, when I 
felt the hands of the eldest child, the boy, detaining me. 
The pitiful expression of the poor, drawn, little face I 
shall never forget, as he sobbed out, — 

“ Take me ; take me. Oh, do take me !” 

I snatched the child up, though my arms trembled so 
much that I was afraid of dropping him ; and telling him 
to hold on to me as tightly as he could, I shut the window 
and went down the steps. 

A wail of fresh grief from one of the poor mites in the 
room brought the tears again to my eyes. 

The woman from whom I had borrowed the steps was 
standing just inside her own yard when I got down. 

Well,” she began. But at the sight of the poor child 
in my arms she cried aloud, “ Dear, dear, but it’s the boy 
Mrs. Finney brought home last March ! My, how he’s 
changed! Dear, dear, but I’m afraid they’ve not been 
using you well !” 

I was glad to be able to vent some of my pent-up 
wrath on her. 

‘^How could you let this go on? You couldn’t live 
so near and not know, not guess something !” I cried, 
passionately. “ There is a roomful of children there 
being slowly starved to death, and — and — and ” 

The woman was impressed, interested, shocked. 


106 


MF CHILD AND L 


“ Dear, dear, I didn’t know it was as bad as that !” 
she murmured. And, after a short pause, she went on 
apologetically, “ You know there’s not much thanks to 
be got by interfering for them sort o’ children.” 

“ Why not ?” said I, angrily. I won’t believe that 
their poor mothers ever guessed where they were going 
to. No, no, no ; it’s not possible they did ! A woman 
may lose her honour without losing her heart.” 

The woman shook her head dubiously. Some do, no 
doubt ; not all. There’s many a lass thinks of nothing 
but how to get rid of the poor brat that’s been born to 
her shame. Do you think they’d let them go out of their 
sight altogether as they do if they’d much of the right 
sort of feeling for the poor little creatures ?” she said, 
dryly. “ And so this one’s yours ?” she added, in a more 
sympathetic tone. 

I was crying. I shook my head. 

“ I don’t think so. I can scarcely hope so. It is seven 
years since they stole my boy from me. This poor child 
can’t be more than four or five.” 

The woman shook her head. 

“ And you’re sure they brought your boy here ?” she 
asked, in a tone which made me think she knew some- 
thing. “ If so, you may be sure it’s done for long ago,” 
she went on, revealing in this speech that she had known 
or guessed more than she had owned to. “ Mrs. Finney 
lived here then, and had to move away rather sudden, 
because of two or three children she had, which she said 
were her own, dying very mysterious-like. They all died, 
except one that was fetched away by a lady.” 

“ There, you see, I told you their mothers wouldn’t let 
them stay if they knewl” 

‘‘ It wasn’t the child’s mother. It was a middle-aged 
lady, the smallest and the snappiest too you ever saw.” 

For a moment my heart seemed to stand still. For 
this description brought into my mind the would-be pro- 
tectress whose help I had so indignantly refused, — Harry 
Dare’s aunt. 

Scarcely intelligible in my excitement, I put more 
questions concerning the lady, and received such answers 
as confirmed me in the belief that it was indeed Mr. 
Dare’s aunt who had rescued my child — for how could 
I doubt that it was in search of my child that she had 


MY CBILD AND L 107 

come ? — from the wretch in whose clutches it had been 
allowed to fall. 

This intelligence gave me an altogether different track 
to follow. 

In the mean time, mindful of the poor little ones I had 
just seen, I asked the way to the police-station. W ith 
a shrug of the shoulders the woman directed me, and in 
less than a quarter of an hour 1 had made my statement, 
the poor little urchin I had already saved proving a 
powerful witness in support. Without this eloquent 
advocate, indeed, I doubt whether I could have induced 
them to let me have the services of a policeman to 
accompany me back to the house. 

On arriving at the baby-farm for the second time, we 
were lucky enough to catch the proprietor of the den, 
Mrs. Finney’s husband, at the door. He was in an 
advanced stage of intoxication, and was easily frightened 
into giving up the children, whom I myself accompanied 
to the workhouse, where I left them in charge of a 
motherly -looking matron, who comforted me by telling 
me that, though they would require care, they were not 
beyond it. As for the boy whom I had held in my arms 
for so long, his grief when I went away was so touching 
that, if I had not dreaded that my husband’s anger 
would fall upon the child as well as upon myself for 
such an action, I should have taken him home with me. 

As I had expected, my husband was furiously angry 
with me for what he called my Quixotic expedition, and 
it was fortunate for me that my researches could now 
take a different direction. For it was now clear to me 
that my only chance was to find out Harry Dare’s aunt. 
This was difficult indeed, since I knew neither her name 
nor her place of residence. However, there was one 
way open, — to state my case plainly to Mr. Wray, the 
solicitor who had known all about Harry Dare and his 
affairs, and to ask him to find out the whereabouts of 
the mysterious aunt. 

So I set about discovering Mr. Wray, which I supposed 
would be an easy task. 

And here, on the very threshold, as it seemed, of the 
door which was to lead me to my lost child, I received 
a blow which threw me back almost in despair: Mr. 
Wray had been dead two years. 


108 


MY CHILD AND L 


CHAPTEE XY. 

The death of Mr. Wray having left me absolutely 
without a clue to the mystery which enveloped the fate 
of my lost child, my hope of recovering him at last gave 
way ; and, although 1 was still not without intermittent 
flashes of belief that some day I should And him, the 
chances of such a meeting seemed to grow more remote 
with every succeeding year. 

There was only one step to take, and that I took : I 
consulted a solicitor of great experience and acuteness, 
told him the whole of the circumstances of the case, and 
asked him what he thought of my chances of success in 
my search. He did not encourage me. If I had known 
either the name or address of the aunt the outlook would 
have been very different. But as there were thousands 
of austerely philanthropical middle-aged ladies in Eng- 
land, and as I had not even known the real name of the 
man whom I still spoke of as my first husband, he felt, 
and he said, that it would be absurd for me to indulge 
in any great hope of finding the boy unless his guardian 
should herself think fit to restore him to me, or unless 
chance should favour me in some singular manner. 

One thing he did for me, but unavailingly. He in- 
serted carefully worded and exceedingly touching adver- 
tisements in the principal papers, religious and other- 
wise, imploring the nameless lady to make known to me 
the existence of my son, if he still lived. He even went 
so far, in these advertisements and by my authority, as 
to promise that I should be content with the knowledge 
that my child was alive and well. He advertised also 
for the waiter Thomas, who had confessed to me that he 
had possession of Mr. Hare’s luggage, and incidentally 
of his secrets also. 

Hone of these advertisements, however, drew forth 
any answers from the persons to whom they were 
addressed. 

Fifteen years of married life with Mr. Keen passed 
very quietly for me. I never had another child, and I 
am sorry to say that I never succeeded in wholly ob- 


MY CHILD AND L 


109 


taming the confidence of my step-daughter Meg, in 
spite of my longing to do so. Her step-brother, Bur- 
gess Falconer, had poisoned her mind against me at 
the outset ; and although, after a time, she consented to 
call me mamma, there was always a barrier between 
us, made stronger, as time went on, by her shrewdness in 
discovering that my affection for her father, whom she 
adored, was not very deep. 

Not that my husband and I lived unhappily. Although 
he complained, as my first husband had done, of my 
coldness, he would certainly have complained still more 
if my affection had been strong enough to make me 
jealous and exacting. As it was, I was an easy-going 
and good-tempered wife to an affectionate, indulgent, 
but decidedly erratic husband. He alternately adored 
and neglected me, and I put up complacently with both 
these moods, although, as time went on, I rather pre- 
ferred the latter. 

We had one subject of interest in common, the run- 
ning of his horses. Already well known and highly 
successful on the turf at the time of his marriage with 
me, Mr. Keen had continued to hold a foremost position 
in the racing world ; and my face was almost as familiar 
to the habitues of the principal race-courses as that of 
my husband himself. 

My other hobby, however, was one in which he took 
no interest, or, rather, perhaps I ought to say that the 
interest he took in it was entirely antagonistic. Since 
the terrible visit I had paid to the Birmingham baby- 
farm, the proprietress of which I had caused to be 
prosecuted and convicted, I had never lost my interest 
in the poor little children whom ignorant or heartless 
girl-mothers give into the care of strangers for a few 
pounds, the price of the children’s misery or early death. 
My husband, who knew what memory it was which had 
bred this interest in me, never ceased to be jealous of it, 
and this feeling was so strong in him that, even after 
fifteen years of married life with him, any reference on 
my part to the possibility that my child might be still 
alive would fill him with angar which I did not care to 
rouse. 

He still kept his house in Kerr Street; but he had 
also taken a very pretty place on the Thames between 
10 


110 


MV CHILD AND L 


Richmond and Teddington, where we now spent the 
greater part of the year. The house itself was large 
and rather heavy-looking, with massive stone pillars and 
frieze on the side which faced the river. It bore the 
strikingly inappropriate name of “ The Limes,” and stood 
in about six acres of beautifully-wooded grounds. 

Here, during the London season, we entertained an 
almost constant succession of visitors, most of whom 
belonged to the world” which races, bets, wants ready 
money and is willing and able to pay handsomely for it ; 
in short, to that section of Society, with a capital S, 
which is most talked about, most written about, most 
abused, and most envied. 

This particular class, while possessing the merit of 
taking life easily, is lax in so many points as to provide 
an atmosphere not conducive to the moral health of the 
very young who may be exposed to its influence. In 
my capacity of careful step-mother, therefore, I was in 
the habit of sending Meg to spend a few days with an 
old lady in town, a relation of her late mother’s, when- 
ever I was expecting a particularly “rackety” set of 
visitors. Meg resented these short periods of exile from 
her river-side home, but, as her father entirely concurred 
in my views on this subject, she had no appeal. 

It was early in June, and Meg had not long returned 
from one of these forced excursions to town, when I 
received one morning, at breakfast, an intimation from 
my husband that we were to receive a visit from one of 
his clients who was supposed to be an especial danger to 
“ the young person.” 

“ How tiresome !” said I, glancing at Meg, who, having 
finished reading her own letters, was eating strawberries 
with a meditative air. 

Judging from past experience, I foresaw that a battle 
with that self-willed and spoilt little person was immi- 
nent. There had been a difliculty about her going away 
on the last occasion, and what would she say now that 
she was wanted to go away again so soon ? However, 
the news had to be broken to her, and I thought it better 
to take the field at once, while her father was present to 
support me. I would rather have begun the battle when 
Burgess was not present, because he had never forgiven 
my rejection of his addresses in favor of his father’s, and 


MF CHILD AND L 


111 


whenever he could thwart or oppose me he did so. But 
I resolved not to be daunted by his presence, and pro- 
ceeded to the attack. 

“Meg,” I began, gently, “I am afraid I have some 
news for you which you will consider very bad.” 

The girl looked up. She had grown up just as she 
had promised to do, when I first made her acquaintance 
as a tiny brown child with glorious eyes which made the 
rest of her face seem of no account. Very little below 
the middle height, she was so slender, had such a small 
face and such tiny hands and feet, that she gave the 
impression of almost fairy-like proportions. A brunette 
by complexion, she rowed and paddled on the river, she 
played lawn-tennis in the heat of the sun, until her face 
and hands were the colour of a gipsy’s. While the rest 
of her features were fairly good, her teeth were so white 
and regular and her eyes so large and bright that the 
rest of her face seemed insignificant by comparison. 
She was now dressed in a serge skirt and a pale blue 
cotton shirt, rather open at the throat, and was not 
looking her best. Meg was very extravagant in dress ; 
for she bought hastily things which often failed to suit 
her, and then threw them aside without taking the 
trouble to discover whether a little alteration in them or 
in her way of wearing them would not set right what 
was wrong. 

“Well, what is it?” she asked, rather gloomily. 

I hesitated. If she did not seem in a very good 
humour before I broke the intelligence to her, what sort 
of scene might we not expect afterwards ? 

“ Lord Percy is coming down. He says he shall be 
here the day after to-morrow. At least he asks if we 
can have him, and we don’t want to have to refuse.” 

Meg turned away her head quickly to look out of the 
window, and I thought the storm was coming. Burgess, 
who had grown very dissipated-looking and rather fat, 
was watching her mischievously from the other side of 
the table. Then, very quietly, she looked at me again. 

“ And you want me to go back to town to stay again 
with Aunt Hi?” 

I could hardly believe my ears. Was this only the 
calm before the storm ? 

“ Well, yes, dear. You know we always think it ” 


112 


MY CHILD AND L 


“ Yery well. When do you want me to go ?” 

Such unexpected submission made even her father 
look up from his paper. She had already begun again 
to eat strawberries, but she was not so deliberate over it 
as before. Burgess uttered an ironical laugh. 

“ Charming, charming !” he exclaimed. “ What touch- 
ing resignation! What beautiful self-abnegation! It 
brings tears to my eyes !” 

Instead of turning sharply round upon him, as was 
Meg’s wont when teased by her step-brother, between 
whom and herself there was always some sort of war- 
fare going on, Meg blushed, and contented herself by 
throwing one haughty glance at him. 

“ Burgess, don’t be a fool,” said his step-father, harshly. 
‘‘ Meg has sense enough to know that the arrangements 
her mother makes for her are entirely for her benefit, 
and then you try to make mischief, and in so doing only 
make an ass of yourself.” 

And he rustled his paper angrily. 

“ Yes, sir,” returned Burgess, meekly. ‘‘ But it’s be- 
cause I am an ass.” 

Meg remained silent while these words were exchanged, 
and oifered no further remark during the course of the 
meal. I was debating what the cause of her change of 
front could be, and wondering whether I should get her to 
confess it. But Meg was shy with me, and I felt doubtful. 

When breakfast was over, however, and we were leav- 
ing the room, a whisper of Burgess’s, which I caught, 
opened my eyes a little. He had run after Meg when 
she left the room, and had caught her as she was on 
her way to her own private study, — a big, disused school- 
room where she sometimes took fencing-lessons, and 
where she kept her tennis-racquet and a favourite pair 
of sculls. 

“ It must make haste, it must, a pretty one !” Burgess 
whispered, with exaggerated solicitude. “ Or it won’t 
catch the post, it won’t ; and then he won’t know it’s 
coming, bless it’s little heart!” 

Meg, who was apt at retort, put her head saucily on 
one side, and cooed out, — 

‘‘And did it think itself so very clever then, a big 
hulking fellow that thought its own love-aifairs the only 
ones in all the world!” 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


113 


And she ran away along the corridor without giving 
him time for further parley. 

A love-affair! Well, it was bound to come sooner or 
later; and if Prince Charming had made his appearance 
first in Aunt Di’s sedate drawing-room, there was little 
to fear concerning him. But, then, I could not be sure 
of this. Meg was not kept in conventual seclusion on 
these visits to town, and she might have met, even when 
under Aunt Di’s wing, some man who had taken her 
girlish fancy, who would turn out to be only another 
of the numerous suitors she had had, whose eyes had 
been more intently fixed on the father’s money than on 
the daughter’s charms. 

Of course there had been many admirers of that sort 
about for two or three years now; and, although Meg 
was so shrewd that she saw through the motives of these 
gentlemen quite as quickly as her guardian did, still the 
charm of the impecunious might some day make itself 
felt by her ; and this was a danger always present to the 
minds both of her father and myself. 

I followed my husband to the study, and expressed 
my fears to him. But he had so much faith in his 
daughter’s shrewdness that he was less perturbed than I. 

The girl’s got her head screwed on the right way, 
Perdita,” said he. “ She’s always spotted ’em before, and 
I’ll back her to do it again. But I’ll look in at Mrs. 
Sutherland’s this afternoon” (Mrs. Sutherland was Aunt 
Di) and ask if there’s anything in the wind.” 

This seemed to me such a desirable course of action 
that I resolved to put no question to Meg until after my 
husband’s visit to Mrs. Sutherland. It was arranged 
that she should go up to town with her father on the 
following morning, and that he should take her himself 
to Mrs. Southerland’s house in Eaton Square. We passed 
the day very quietly, therefore, having no visitors with 
us, and the weather being so warm that even energetic, 
lithe Meg was glad to lie in a hammock slung between 
two trees on the lawn instead of beguiling an unhappy 
neighbour into playing lawn-tennis with her or going for 
a cruise in her canoe. 

Towards evening a gentle breeze sprang up, and be- 
tween five and six o’clock it was pleasant to sit in our 
basket-chairs on the edge of the lawn, close by the river’s 
h 10* 


114 


MY CHILD AND L 


bank, and watch the boats go by. Meg was inclined to 
be cross, I thought. 

‘‘ Nobody nice or decently dressed ever comes by here,’^ 
she said, scornfully. Only city clerks in badly-washed 
flannels, with a giggling shop-girl or two to steer them.” 

Quite suddenly she stopped and blushed. Turning my 
eyes rapidly from her face to the river, I saw a skiff 
smart-looking enough to satisfy even Meg’s lofty ideals, 
manned by a decidedly attractive-looking crew, consisting 
of two well-dressed and well-bred-looking young men, 
who were at that moment in the act of raising their hats 
to us. 

“ Who are they, Meg ?” said I. 

She had risen impulsively from her chair, and had 
already taken a few steps towards the bank ; encouraged 
by this condescension, the young men were resting on 
their oars. The girl turned towards me, and I perceived 
by the heightened colour of her cheeks, and by a certain 
air of repressed excitement which I knew her well enough 
to read, that one or other of these two smart-looking 
oarsmen must be the “ reason” which was drawing her 
back to town. 

I met them at Aunt Di’s,” she answered, with affected 
carelessness; not, however, turning sufficiently to lose 
sight of the boat. “ They are great friends. They call 
them Damon and Pythias. I forget their real names. 
Shall I introduce them ?” 

If you can manage it, having forgotten their names,” 
said I, smiling. 

Something about the look of one of these young fellows 
attracted me ; a twinkle of humour in the dark eyes, 
perhaps it was, or the intelligent expression of his small, 
bronze face. I glanced at the other man. He, too, was 
pleasant to look upon, and would no doubt have been 
considered by many the handsomer of the two. But he 
was tall and rather weedy-looking, I thought ; moreover, 
like so many fair-complexioned young Englishmen, he 
was burnt by the summer sun a bright brick-red, which 
did not show to advantage beside the rich copper- brown 
of his companion’s skin. Turning my eyes again upon 
his companion, who had by this time brought the skiff 
close to the bank and was conversing with Meg, I felt that 
I could understand her fancy for this slight, lithe, olive. 


MY CHILD AND L 


115 


skinned lad, with the merry eyes and the nimble limbs, 
who was evidently urging some plea, and urging it in the 
most persuasive way, while his less eloquent companion 
sat silent behind him, and gave all his energies to keeping 
the skiff steady, a feat which the restless movements of 
his excitable friend rendered by no means easy. 

“ Let me introduce you to mamma,” Meg said, as I 
came to the river-edge. “ Mamma, this is Mr. Harry 
Carey,” and she presented the young fellow with the 
bronzed face. “ And this,” she went on, indicating with 
rather less ceremony his quieter companion, “is his 
cousin, Mr. Deane Carey. I met them at Aunt Di’s.” 

“Miss Keen throws that explanation in very apolo- 
getically, as if anxious to absolve Mrs. Sutherland from 
the guilt of having picked up such undesirable acquaint- 
ances,” said Harry of the laughing eyes. 

“ Undesirable !” I exclaimed, smiling. “ Is that how 
you wish to write yourselves down?” 

As the lad (for he could not have been more than two- 
or three-and-twenty, and seemed, if anything, even 
younger) turned to me, I felt that the attraction both 
his face and his manner had for me increased. The 
deviltry in his answer pleased me also. 

“ Certainly I do. Start with a good character, and 
the chances are, to begin with, that people will look 
upon you as a humbug, and be always looking out for 
unsuspected weak points. Then, too, you have an awfully 
high standard to live up to, and at the slightest slip you 
are hurled down from your pedestal, never to be set up 
again. Start with a bad character, or with none, like 
me, and every intimation you give of ordinary human 
feeling scores you a point, while in the case of your man 
of good character it goes for nothing.” 

He bad chattered on so volubly that his companion 
had not yet been introduced to me. I now turned, 
smiling, to the more sedate of the cousins. 

“And does this alarming description apply to you 
also ?” 

Before he could answer the voluble Harry broke in : 

“Ho, poor fellow. Unfortunately it does not. He 
has always had a good character, he has always suffered 
for it, and no efforts that he can now make will ever 
suffice to clear away the unfortunate impression once 


116 


MY CHILD AND L 


made. I have to go about explaining to people that he 
isn’t quite as good as he seems, or the poor fellow would 
never get anybody to speak to him.” 

“ Of course,” suggested Meg, demurely, “ every one is 
so much occupied in running after you.” 

“ Unfortunately, no,” admitted Harry, modestly. If 
I were the only bad character in the world I should 
have a high old time, I dare say. But there are so 
many more of them about that I don’t get appreciated 
at my proper value.” 

Which is, no doubt, a high one ?” said Meg, mis- 
chievously. 

Harry bowed in respectful acquiescence. 

From this short colloquy I gathered that Meg had 
met the young men, or at any rate Harry, more than 
once. It was not so much out of consideration for 
Meg’s feelings as for my own that I asked the cousins 
whether they would land and have tea with us under 
the trees. I wanted to see more of the bright-faced 
boy. As the years went by I had kept count of the age 
my son would have reached if he were still alive, and 
as he would now be two-and- twenty, that was the age 
which at this time had the greatest fascination for me. 
This may have had something to do with the interest I 
felt in Harry Carey, compared with my indifference 
towards his much graver and older-looking cousin. 

My invitation was accepted with eagerness ; and, as I 
was about to walk towards the house to give orders for 
the tea-table to be brought under the trees on the shady 
side of the lawn, Harry asked whether Meg might steer 
them as far as the lock and back during my absence. I 
saw that this had been the subject upon which he and 
Meg had been conversing when I came up. I consented, 
rather surprised that the wilful Meg had thought it 
necessary to consult me in a matter in which she evi- 
dently felt much interest. She took her place in the 
boat at once, and made a very pretty addition, in her 
pale pink frock and black sailor-hat with a pale pink 
band, to the boat-load she had herself admired so much. 

When the young people came back I had the daintiest 
and most inviting of tea-tables spread for them in the 
prettiest nook in the garden. As they came up the 
lawn from the boat, I noticed that Meg and Harry came 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


117 


first, each with so much to say, of a flippant and lively 
sort, that neither seemed able to wait with patience for 
the remarks of the other ; while the tall and slow Deane 
was left to make fast the boat, and then follow in the 
wake of the others, with nobody to talk with him. 
When at last they came close to the table, however, 
Harry left his young companion and came up to my 
chair. I had not noticed the movement, for, with my 
hand on the little silver kettle in front of me, I was 
looking underneath it to see whether the wind was too 
strong for the little spirit-lamp which kept the water 
hot. 

Suddenly a voice above me, and not far from my ear, 
startled me so much that the kettle rocked under my 
trembling hand. 

“ You are very good to us, Mrs. Keen. I wish all 
poor, weary travellers might find such hospitality.” 

The words were nothing, only a young man’s playful 
speech, uttered in tones of mock-solemnity and tender- 
ness. But something in the voice struck a sort of terror 
to my very soul : it was the voice of my first husband, 
Harry Dare. 

Harry!” I exclaimed, involuntarily, as I looked up, 
expecting to see I know not what. 

But ail that I did see was the young man’s look of 
surprise at my so very unexpectedly addressing him by 
his Christian name. 

“ How lucky,” I thought to myself, as I blushed like 
a girl at my fanciful foolishness, “that Harry is his 
Christian name 1” 


CHAPTEE XVI. 

‘T WAS so much perturbed, middle-aged woman as I 
was, by the strange effect the young fellow’s voice had 
had upon me, and by my own lack of self-control, that 
I rushed into tea-making without giving myself time 
to make any reflections. I was not surprised to find, 
when I had recovered myself a little, that the volatile 
Harry had taken possession of Meg, leaving me to enter- 
tain bis shy and rather ponderous cousin. 


118 


Mr CHILD AND L 


Now, I flattered myself upon my brilliant success with 
very young men. The haunting belief in my son’s exist- 
ence which formed such an important element in my life 
gave me a sympathy with their thoughts and feelings 
which made me exceedingly popular with them. But on 
this occasion my kind words, which had become a matter 
of habit, came from my lips only and not from my heart. 
It was surprising to me therefore, absorbed as 1 was in 
furtively watching Harry Carey, in whom I took a strong 
and almost tremulous interest, to find myself presently 
listening to such a frank outpouring of a young man’s 
soul as I had never yet been honoured with. I looked 
wonderingly at the sunburnt face of the heavy young 
man who was making me his confidante. His blue eyes 
were full of feeling, his voice was soft, his manner gentle, 
almost tender. 

“ Why,” said I, leaning back in my chair, and feeling, 
as I turned my eyes resolutely from the other face to 
his, like one waking from a dream, — ‘‘ why do you tell 
these things to me, a stranger?” I asked the question 
quite gently, but the young man drew back a little, and 
his face, which had been the colour of a red brick before, 
became the colour of beet-root. 

“I — I hardly know: perhaps I ought to apologize,” 
said he, relapsing into shyness for a moment and then 
quickly recovering himself. At least, that is not quite 
true. The fact is, Mrs. Keen, you have only yourself 
to thank if I have bored you to death. I don’t talk like 
this to everybody : I certainly never talked quite in the 
same way to any woman before. But you have a manner 
which does not so much invite confidence as compel it, 
and I have given way to the magnetism (really I must 
use that word!) you possess, without considering the 
awful consequences to the magnetizer.” 

I was touched, and rather ashamed to think how little, 
if he had only known it, I deserved this young fellow’s 
confidence. For indeed I had heard him, for the most 
part, without listening. 

“You have not bored me,” I answered, gently, and 
truly enough, for I had not heard much. “ It is only an 
idiot whom genuine confidences, from man, woman, or 
child, can bore. And so,” I went on, reverting to a point 
which I had not only grasped in his discourse, but had 


MY CHILD AND 1 . 119 

been interested in, “your cousin Harry is your only 
friend ?” 

“ Excepting the aunt who brought us both up/’ said 
Deane, in answer. “And she thinks so much more of 
him than she does of me that I may almost leave her 
out of the question.” 

“Ah!” said 1, smiling, “that is the effect of the fatal 
good character he told us about ! We women, you know, 
like to patronize, and to pity, and to forgive. And we 
feel comparatively cold towards the man who won’t 
give us the opportunity to do any of these things.” 

“ That is very bad morality to preach. And the sting 
lies in the truth of it. A year ago Harry and I fell in 
love with the same girl. She fell in love with him, of 
course, and I asked her, as a matter of information, to 
tell me on what grounds she made her choice so quickly. 

‘ Well, Deane,’ she said, ‘ Harry’s so fickle, there’ll be 
some fun in keeping him up to the mark. How, with 
you, I should be afraid you really might love me for- 
ever : and think how awfully slow that would be !’ ” 

“ Go on,” said 1. smiling, seeing that he paused. 

“ Well, she was quite right. He did want keeping up 
to the mark. But by the time it dropped through she 
had grown awfully in earnest, and she said to me, crying, 
poor girl, ‘ Deane, why didn’t I take you I’ And so it 
will be always I” he ended, rather mournfully. 

“But you needn’t always fall in love with the same 
girl,” I suggested. 

“ Sometimes one can’t help it,” he said, ruefully. 

And, involuntarily, I am sure, he threw a glance at 
Harry and Meg which suddenly opened my eyes as to 
the need he had felt for confidence of some sort, even if 
he had to leave out the principal subject of his thoughts. 

I uttered an exclamation of sympathy. Indeed, if he 
and the mercurial Harry were rivals I could give him 
little hope. He seemed to fear that he had betrayed 
himself, for he grew very red again, and, rising suddenly, 
suggested to his cousin that they were inflicting them- 
selves upon us too long, and that they ought to be get- 
ting on if they were to catch the train by which they 
proposed to return to town. 

I debated with myself whether I should ask them to 
remain and meet my husband ; but I decided against this 


120 


MY CHILD AND L 


course, for he often returned from town tired and not in 
the best of tempers, and I wanted him to meet Harry 
Carey when he was in a good humour. I let the two 
young men go, therefore, and Meg and I accompanied 
them as far as the river’s bank, and waved a farewell to 
them as they rowed away. They had not gone out of 
sight, however, when my husband’s voice, in its very 
surliest tones, was heard shouting to me from the 
house. 

Meg started and turned rather pale, as she always did 
when her father was angry. 

“ Papa I” she exclaimed. And then she added, ingenu- 
ously, “ Oh, I’m so glad the boys got away before he 
came !” 

I echoed the thought, but not the words : before we 
had time to say any more, my husband came down the 
garden towards us at a rapid pace. Meg, with one 
glance at his face, fled precipitately. I went to meet 
him, feeling rather nervous. 

“Well, dear,” I began, with a propitiatory smile. 

“Well, dear,” said he, mimicking me angrily. “Who 
was that I saw you women nodding and smirking to ? 
Come, come, don’t pretend not to know. There were 
two of ’em — in a boat.” 

“ Only two young fellows Meg met at her Aunt Hi’s,” 
I answered at once. 

“Her Aunt Hi’s! Pretty mess you’ve been making 
of it, then, sending her there to escape my friends ! Why, 
one of those precious young fellows you were making 
such a fuss with is a young blackguard I wouldn’t have 
inside my house! A fellow who’s always borrowing 
money, and who’s forged his old aunt’s name to a bill 
of his I’ve got, I’m pretty sure.” 

A spasm of terror seized me. I would not for the 
world have disclosed my suspicions, my hopes, and my 
fears to my husband. As he paused a moment, still 
looking angrily down the river towards the bridge, I, 
exercising strong command over myself, said, — 

“ Are you sure it’s the same man, dear ? What was 
the young fellow’s name ?” 

“ His name is Carey, Harry Carey. You know that as 
well as I do,” he added, brusquely, thinking he saw an 
attempt on my part to interfere, as I had sometimes ven- 


MF CHILD AND L 


121 


tured to do, though never with success, on behalf of some 
luckless client. 

“ It is the name of one of the lads who were in the 
boat, certainly,” I admitted, seeing that there was no 
help for it. “ But you are not sure about the forgery ?” 

‘‘ I shall be to-morrow,” replied he, briefly. “ I was 
put up to my suspicions of the genuineness of the old 
woman’s signature by another man who had been ‘ had’ 
by the young rascal. So I wrote to her asking if I 
could call upon her on business. I had an answer from 
her to-day, saying she would rather call upon me, and 
would be at Kerr Street at halfpast one to-morrow. I 
shall get my money, I ascertained that from my inform- 
ant ; but that doesn’t affect my opinion of a man who 
will let in his poor old aunt again and again in that 
way.” 

“ Of course not,” said I, quietly. 

I was miserable, excited, filled with fears and doubts, 
which I took pains to hide. 

What is the aunt’s name ?” I asked, with affected 
carelessness. 

“ Lady Stephana Darent,” said my husband. She’s 
a relation of the Duke of St. Ives, and aunt to Lord 
Wallinghurst.” 

Lord Wallinghurst! The name sent a thrill through 
me, and set me on a fresh track of thought. My hus* 
band saw me start at the name, and asked if I had ever 
known him. 

Ko,” said I. “ But his father, the late earl, I knew 
very well indeed. My father trained his horses; he 

trained Fabricius, who was Derby favourite in sixty , 

and who didn’t win, you remember.” 

My husband had heard the story from me again and 
again, of what I knew of that eventful Derby and its 
consequences. So he only nodded. To my relief, for 
the confusion in my thoughts was increasing so fast that 
I was afraid my husband would grow curious, the dinner- 
bell rang at that moment, and we went in-doors. 

That night I scarcely slept, so sure was I that I was 
on the brink of a great discovery. 

Next morning I found I had some shopping to do, and 
went up to town with Meg and my husband. But when 
I reached the house in Kerr Street, I made some excuse 
r 11 


122 


MV CHILD AND L . 


for remaining there, so that I might be present when 
Lady Stephana should arrive. 

My husband’s study, into which his clients were shown 
after a ceremonious period of probation in an adjoining 
room, was on the ground-floor. Beckoning, as a matter 
of course, that the lady would go through the usual 
course on her arrival, I seated myself in the anteroom 
to wait for her. Punctually at half past one the bell of 
the front door rang. With my heart beating very fast 
I listened to the opening and closing of the door, to the 
footsteps of the footman and of the lady in the hall. 
But they passed the door of the room in which I was 
sitting : my husband had given orders, so I afterwards 
heard, that the lady was to be shown at once into the 
study. 

It seemed an age to me before the interview was over. 
I did not dare to enter the study while my husband was 
engaged with a client : no excuse would have availed, in 
my husband’s eyes, to account for my taking such a 
liberty. But I was determined not to be balked a 
second time ; so I waited near the door of the room to 
hear the first sound of the lady’s departure. 

When the study-door opened at last, my husband him- 
self came out with his visitor, and they passed so rapidly 
along the hall that they had almost reached the front 
door before I came up to them. Following them as I 
did, I could not at first see the lady’s face; but her 
diminutive stature arrested my attention and caused my 
heart to beat faster. My husband turned on hearing my 
footsteps, and said, at once, — 

“Allow me to introduce my wife. Lady Stephana. 
Lady Stephana Parent — Mrs. Keen.” 

I bowed, trembling like a leaf in the wind. But I 
uttered no word, no sound; for I did not want my hus- 
band to know that I recognised her. 

Lady Stephana Parent was the aunt of my first hus- 
band, Harry Pare, and she knew me as soon as our eyes 
met. 


MF CHILD AND L 


123 


CHAPTEE XYIL 

‘‘ Mrs. Keen — Lady Stephana Parent.” 

A conventional smile on my side, a stiff, jerky nod on 
the part of Lady Stephana ] and then the visitor, with 
the briefest of small speeches, disappeared quickly into 
the brougham which was waiting for her, and the meet- 
ing 1 had waited for so many years was over. 

My husband looked at me in astonishment. 

“ Why, Perdita, what’s the matter with you ?” he asked. 
“ You’ve gone as white as a sheet. Did the old woman’s 
rudeness annoy you ? Those little bundles of genealogy 
and nerves are always like that. But you can bold your 
own with ’em, old girl.” 

“ Yes, I suppose I can by this time,” said I, trying to 
laugh, but with rather a shaky voice. 

My husband thrust his hand through my arm and led 
me into his study. This was a rarely-conferred honour, 
which, however. I was hardly in the mood to appreciate. 
I wanted to be alone, to think over what I had found out. 
My husband was too shrewd not to see that, in spite of 
my denial, there was something wrong with me. He 
poured me out a glass of wine, with a keen glance at my 
face, before he began to speak about the interview he 
had had with Lady Stephana. It was I who had to ask 
him for details of what had passed. I think he guessed 
that, for some reason, my interest was stronger than I 
pretended. 

“ It was just as I had thought,” he said, briefly, in an- 
swer to my question. “ The old lady evidently adores 
the young scamp, and when I showed her the bill, she 
declared the signature to be hers. But I saw by the 
start she gave, and the sort of orange tint which came 
into her little dried-up face, that it wasn’t true. Well, 
she made me give up the bill, — for a consideration, of 
course. I didn’t come badly out of the business : these 
old women must expect to pay for their fancies, whether 
they run in the direction of curly poodles, or missionaries, 
or wild nephews. But the lad is a dirty little scoundrel, 
who ought to be kicked.” 


124 


MY CHILD AND L 


These last words seemed to cut into my heart like the 
point of a sword. For how could I doubt that it was of 
my own son he was speaking? I remained silent for a 
short time, during which my husband, behind his big 
office writing-table, looked through the pages of a memo- 
randum-book, and made two or three fresh entries. 

“ It seems curious, doesn’t it,” said I, at last, “ that she 
should turn out to be the sister of the very Lord Walling- 
hurst I used to know so well when I was a child ? I ought 
to have told her about that. It might have interested 
her, and made her thaw a little. Where does she live ?” 
I asked, as indifferently as I could, after a little pause. 

“ Somewhere in Shropshire, I fancy, by what she 
said.” 

“ But where is she staying in town ?” 

I felt that my colour was rising under his close scru- 
tiny. But he answered, — 

‘‘ In Grosvenor Place, at the house of the Duke of St. 
Ives.” 

I had now heard all I wanted to know, and as soon as 
I could I made my escape. There was the shopping for 
an excuse. My husband wanted me to have the brougham, 
but I thought a hansom would give me greater indepen- 
dence ; for I knew that he was not above questioning the 
servants as to my movements when he was either jealous 
or curious, as was even now sometimes the case. 

I did some shopping first, in Sloane Street and its 
neighbourhood; then I drove as far as St. George’s 
Hospital, and dismissed the hansom. I was thinking of 
that occasion on which I had followed the mysterious 
woman who proved to be Harry Dare’s wife down this 
very street, and, as I soon found, to the very door at 
which I was about to ask for Lady Stephana. I remem- 
bered how impossible it had seemed that such a woman 
as she was should be admitted into such a house ; and I 
understood now that Lady Stephana must have been 
staying there on that occasion just as she was staying 
now. 

But I was destined to be less fortunate. The footman 
who opened the door in answer to my ring informed me 
that Lady Stephana was not at home. 

I wrote to her that evening, imploring her to let me 
know the truth about my son, whatever it might be. I 


MY CHILD AND L 


125 


said I thanked her for the care and kindness she had 
bestowed upon him for so many years, but asked her 
what possible reason there could be now for keeping us 
apart any longer. I was now a middle-aged woman, a 
wife of long standing, and perhaps, I suggested, my in- 
fluence, low as her opinion of me might be, might do more 
for my boy than hers had been able to do. I added that 
though, in consideration of what she had done for him, I 
condescended to use a tone of entreaty, being anxious to 
be on good terms with one who had been a kind friend 
to my son, yet that it was too late to deceive me ; and 
that if she refused to be reconciled to me herself, and 
herself to introduce me to my boy, I should make myself 
known to him without her intervention. 

I received a prompt answer, written in the third person, 
apparently by a female secretary, who informed me that 
Lady Stephana Darent had left town for the Continent, 
and that, in answer to Mrs. Keen’s note. Lady Stephana 
desired to inform Mrs. Keen that she was at liberty to 
take what steps she pleased. 

I was not long in taking them. I dared not ask my 
husband for Harry Carey’s address, but it seemed to me 
probable that Meg would know it, and, as the girl had by 
this time returned from Aunt Hi’s to The Limes, I took 
the flrst opportunity of asking her. 

We were sitting in the drawing-room one evening after 
dinner, before the gentlemen had joined us, when I put 
the question I wished to ask as neatly as I could. 

‘‘ By the bye, what has become of those two young 
fellows whom we entertained at tea last week ? They 
seemed to enjoy themselves so much here, particularly 
the younger of them,” said I, with an arch smile and a 
glance at the girl’s crimsoning face, ‘‘ that I wonder we 
haven’t heard from them again. But perhaps you have ?” 
I suggested. 

Meg looked quite frightened. 

“ Don’t you know, mamma,” she said, in a low voice, 
and rather suspiciously, “ that papa wrote a very angry 
letter to Aunt Di, telling her she had no business to 
have such people in her house, and that if the Careys 
were allowed to visit her again I should never come to 
stay with her any more ?” 

I told her truly that I had not heard of it, and then, 
11 * 


126 


CHILD AND L 


warming to the girl as 1 had never done before on find- 
ing how much distressed she was by the prohibition, I 
told her, rather tremulously, that I knew Harry Carey 
had got himself into trouble through some youthful 
folly. And then, watching her face, and seeing sympathy 
there, I said I had learnt something about the young 
fellow’s early history which made me sorry for him, and 
that 1 was by no means disposed to be so hard upon him 
as her father was. 

“ Do you know where he lives ?” I then asked. 

At first Meg, looking askance at me out of her soft, 
bright eyes, seemed inclined to suspect that I had been 
set to play the spy, and professed complete ignorance 
on the subject. But presently she relented, and con- 
fessed that she had heard one or other of the cousins 
say that they had chambers, “ or a fiat, or something,” 
in Piccadilly. By degrees I got the whole address, and 
then that very night I wrote a note to Harry Carey, in 
the following words : 

“Dear Mr. Carey, — I have to go up to town to- 
morrow, and trust my matronly and not over-active 
person in the London streets — the terrible London 
streets — without an escort. Will you take pity upon a 
poor old woman who has no son to lend her his strong 
young arm, and see me on my way ? If so, please meet 
me at Waterloo at one o’clock. 

“ Sincerely yours, 

“Perdita Keen.” 

On the following morning, much to Meg’s surprise, 
for it was a wet day, I got into the brougham as soon as 
it returned from taking my husband to the station, and 
started for town. I was in a state of keen excitement, 
divided between the delight of the thought that I had 
recovered my son and grief that he was not all that a 
mother’s heart could wish. The sins of the father were 
being visited on the son ; I could not find it in my heart 
to blame ; I had nothing but pity for the child of Harry 
Dare, and the grandson, as I now felt sure that he must be, 
of my father’s old friend and patron Lord Wallinghurst. 

A great many things which had puzzled me in the old 
days were now becoming clear to me, one by one. The 


MY CHILD AND L 


127 


attraction the face of Harry Hare had had for me when 
I first met him I understood to be his resemblance to 
his father, Lord Wallinghurst, which, looking back, I 
could now dimly recognize. I remembered how Lord 
Wallinghurst had spoken of a scapegrace son, and how 
I had said I should prefer him to his brothers, little 
thinking how far that liking would one day carry me. 
This Lady Stephana, then, was the saintly sister of 
whom Lord Wallinghurst used to speak. Gradually the 
whole story was getting a new meaning: I saw that 
my instinctive liking for Harry Hare had been no mere 
coincidence, but the natural consequence of my seeing 
in his face the features and expression of my father’s 
old friend. And so, in a way which seemed strange, but 
which was really very natural, my fortunes had become 
bound up in those of Lord Wallinghurst’s family. 

It was still raining fast when the train drew up at 
the platform at Waterloo, and my heart leapt up as I 
recognised the bright, black-eyed face of Harry Carey, 
who was waiting to meet me. It gave me a thrill of 
the most exquisite happiness to note that his face lighted 
up at the sight of me. 

“ I was afraid you wouldn’t come when it turned out 
such a beastly day,” said he, as he helped me to alight. 

My hand trembled as it touched his. It was difficult 
for me to keep up the light tone of an ordinary acquaint- 
ance. 

I have been hoping all the way that it would clear 
up,” said I, “ so that I might at least be able to potter 
about with some comfort after luncheon.” 

“ Are you going anywhere to lunch by appointment ?” 
asked he, quite eagerly. “ Because, if not, there’s noth- 
ing would give me greater pleasure than to give you 
luncheon at my own place, — mine and Heane’s, that is. 
They’re only bachelor diggings, you know, but if you 
would put up with them we should feel so much honoured, 
both of us.” 

With another thrill of pleasure, I accepted the invita- 
tion. To see my son’s home, the objects which sur- 
rounded him every day, the place in which he lived, — 
this was a pleasure greater than I had ventured to 
expect. We got into a hansom, and drove first to 
Somerset House, where, so Harry told me, both he and 


128 


MY CHILD AND L 


his cousin were engaged. He wanted to run in and tell 
Deane of the honour which awaited him, so that that 
young man, instead of lunching in the Strand as usual, 
should hurry back home as soon as he was at liberty. 

‘‘We both aave an hour for luncheon, from one to 
two,” Harry explained, as, with his usual radiant face, 
he got into the hansom again beside me. “ I got olf 
this morning to come and meet you, and I don’t suppose 
they’ll be hard upon Deane if he’s ten minutes late after 
luncheon. I shall say,” he added, laughing, “ that you 
are a rich aunt, and that we daren’t offend you.” 

This little jest pleased me, and I caught at it eagerly. 

“ Yes, you shall both call me aunt, and then you will 
gradually believe in the relationship, and be able to tell 
the tarradiddle without a betraying blush.” 

“ Oh, if I blushed whenever I did tell one,” said Harry, 
laughing, “I should hardly ever be a proper colour.” 
This avowal caused me a sharp pang, even as he rattled 
on : “ But I like to lie consistently, so we must not let 
you be seen, Mrs. Keen. For you don’t look old enough, 
nearly old enough, to be my aunt, much less the aunt of 
a great, hulking fellow like Deane.” 

For a few moments 1 remained silent, and then I said, 
softly, — 

“ You boys need not make pretty speeches to me. I 
am old enough, quite old enough to be your aunt, or — or 
your mother.” 

I held my breath with interest and excitement as I 
saw that a gloomy expression passed for a moment into 
his face as I uttered the last word. Had he wondered, 
poor boy, what his unknown mother was like ? Or had 
he been told that she was a person about whom it would 
be better for him not to ask ? 

I trembled as I went on, following up the opening I 
had made : 

“ I feel interested in all young lads, boys I should say 
if I dared, of about your age. For, if he had not been 
taken from me, I should have had a son who would have 
been twenty-two.” 

My voice must have betrayed to a pair of eyes so 
keen as Harry’s the fact that I was under the influence 
of some extraordinary emotion. He glanced at me in 
his usual rapid manner, and remained silent; and I 


MV CHILD AND /. 


129 


fancied by the expression of his face that he was puz- 
zling out some question in his mind. I was silent also, 
hoping that he would ask me something. But the 
problem which occupied his mind was apparently too 
intricate to be solved quickly or easily. At last, after 
throwing at me two or three lightning glances, full of 
inquiry, of intelligence, he said, in a tentative sort of 
way,— 

You lost your son, you say. Do you mean that he 
died ?” 

There was a pause, while I tried to get my voice en- 
tirely under control. Then I said, — 

“ No. I do not think he died. He was, as I told you, 
taken away. He was taken by people” — my voice 
shook, in spite of all my efforts — ‘‘who thought they 
were doing the best they could for him — and for me. 
But — but— they nearly broke my heart. And — and my 
boy — I think would have been the better for knowing 
that he had a mother who, whatever her faults and her 
misfortunes might be, had love in her heart for him, 
love which has never died in all these lonely years.” 

I did not dare to look at him : for if at that moment, 
with my heart full of yearning, I had met his eyes, I 
should have cried aloud “ My son I my son !” I should have 
flung my arms about him, and have sobbed on his breast. 
And, remembering that we were driving through the 
London streets, in a hansom with the glass down, where 
there was little room for violent demonstrations and 
considerable chance of attracting attention, I kept my 
head turned away from him and restrained myself 
Harry on his side was as reserved and as silent as I. 
I wanted to know what he was thinking, above all what 
he was feeling; whether nature was speaking to his 
heart as loudly as she was to mine. But I would not 
speak, I would not look ; and so we drove on in com- 
plete silence, until the cabman reined in his horse, opened 
the trap above, and put his head down to inquire, in a 
thick voice, — 

“ Is this right, sir ?” 

It was right, and it was the side-door of a shop in 
Piccadilly. We got out, and hurried in. 

“ I must apologize for the stairs : it’s at the very top, 
a mere garret,” explained Harry, as I began the ascent. 


130 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


It was a long way up, certainly, but it was a very 
snug little nest when you got there. The two young 
men had each a tiny bedroom, and they shared between 
them a sitting-room of fair size, furnished in the most 
luxurious manner. 

You extravagant boys !” I exclaimed, as I noted the 
dado of lin crusta Walton and the Japanese leather 
paper, the saddlebag furniture and the Persian rugs. 
“ Why, you have a room fit for princes.” 

But only just decent enough to ask you into !” said 
Harry, in whose face, which I now saw for the first time 
since our entrance, there burned an excitement equal to 
my own. “ Take this chair, and let me turn it a little, — 
so. Like that you have a fine view of our best etching, 
and besides, you miss the sight of this trayful of un- 
darned socks, which that graceless beast Deane should 
have taken into his own room, instead of giving us 
away by leaving them about here !” 

“ IJndarned socks! Where are they?” said I, eagerly. 

And rising from the chair which I had obediently 
taken, I pounced upon a pile of ragged hose. Harry 
rushed at me, and with mock sternness commanded me 
to give them up. But I clung to them, and there ensued 
between us a struggle which set me laughing hysterically 
for joy that the hands touching mine were those of my 
recovered son. In the end I conquered, being indeed 
determined to carry my point. 

“Now,” said I, “have you anything to mend them 
with ? Some of these are silk, I see, and some cashmere. 
Who mended them last ?” 

“ The memory of man goeth not far back enough for 
me to say,” answered Harry, cheerfully. “We do pay 
the old woman who does the washing — or we promise 
to pay her, I forget which — to look over our things. But 
I believe she keeps to the strict letter of the contract, 
and contents herself with the looking.” 

“ Then,” said I, “ I will go out myself and get what I 
want to enable me to set about my work.” 

“Not so, madam? We are not here upon a desert 
island : there are myrmidons within call.” 

And he pulled the bell-handle. 

“ Now,” he went on, “you will give your orders to the 
slavey, who shall execute your commands or die. In 


MY CHILD AND L 


131 


the mean time I will away in search of the wherewithal 
to make a meal. 1 dare say you will not miss me for a 
little while ; and there is our art-collection to inspect.” 

So I commissioned the servant, who had by this time 
appeared, to get me the needles, wool, and silk I wanted, 
and, Harry having taken himself off in the highest pos- 
sible spirits, I was left alone. 

I was crazily happy. At last the hunger of my heart 
was appeased : I had found my boy. True, I had not 
yet made myself known to him ; but already he had, I 
felt sure, an inkling of the truth, and when I took leave 
of him that afternoon we should part as mother and son. 
I moved about the room, unable to contain my happiness. 
These were the chairs my son sat in, the walls which 
sheltered him, the pictures on which his eyes rested 
every day. I peeped into the little bedroom adjoining. 
It was not in keeping with the sitting-room, being fur- 
nished with almost monastic simplicity. A small bed, 
an insignificant painted wash-hand-stand, a wardrobe, 
evidently bought second-hand, not matching anything 
else, a common little dressing-table, one chair : that was 
all. On the table was a book, which I opened lovingly : it 
was in Latin, so I could not understand it. But there 
was something in it which I did understand, and that 
was a dead and dry fiower, an orchid, which I recog- 
nised as one which Meg had worn when she started in 
the skiff with the two young men, but which I now re- 
membered that she had not worn on her return. 

I placed tender fingers on the withered thing, and felt 
that I loved Meg for having given it to him. He should 
marry her ; she was a good girl, and the gentle influence 
of a loving woman should make right what was wrong 
in him, correct the defects which heredity had brought 
upon him, and render him as happy as even I could wish 
him to be. 

There were difficulties in the way of this pleasant 
settlement, I was obliged to admit. I felt a sudden qualm 
of uneasiness as I wondered what my husband would 
say or do if he could know where I was at that moment. 
A doubt crossed my mind whether he would ever consent, 
now that he had formed so strong a prejudice against 
Harry, to his marriage with Meg. But I was too happy 
to nurse such fears for long : surely such love as burned 


132 


MY CHILD AND L 


in my breast for my boy would be strong enough to clear 
away all obstacles to his happiness. 

Singing to myself I closed the Latin book gently on 
the withered flower ; and, looking up, I caught the reflec- 
tion of my own face in the little looking-glass which 
had so often, so I told myself, reflected that of my son. 
And I saw a face which was transfixed, radiant with 
keen delight. I felt a vivid pleasure in the fact that I 
had preserved my beauty, that my hair was still bright, 
my skin still smooth ; for I told myself that my boy 
could still be proud to say of me, “ That is my mother !” 

And, flushed and excited with the thought of the 
momentous interview before me, I went back into the 
sitting-room just in time to meet Harry on his return 
from his marketing expedition. 

‘‘I have been trespassing. I have been exploring 
your room,” I said, in a tone which seemed to take his 
knowledge of the relationship between us for granted. 

But Harry looked, I thought, rather scornful. 

“ That isn’t my room,” he exclaimed, disdainfully, as 
he glanced at the open door through which I had just 
come. That’s Deane’s.” And, leading the way out on 
to the landing, he threw open the door of a second bed- 
room, larger than the first, and as handsomely furnished 
as the other had been the reverse. 

Brass bedstead with silken hangings to match the 
window- curtains ; wardrobe, wash-hand-stand, chairs, and 
dressing-table of rosewood; silver-backed brushes and 
cut crystal jug and basin. 

It was ridiculous, childish of me, but I was sorry that 
the plain room was not my son’s. 

And then the withered orchid ? 


CHAPTEE XVIII. 

I SOON got over my momentary disappointment in the 
pleasure of Harry’s society. He was in the highest 
possible spirits; yet through his hilarity I thought I 
perceived a certain acute anxiety, which I attributed to 
the half-knowledge he must have of my relationship to 
him, and to his earnest wish to know more. 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


133 


The servant had brought me the needles and wool, and 
I had sat down in the chair which Harry had chosen for 
me, and begun my work. 

Harry took a modest footstool, and asked permission, 
which I accorded laughing but almost with tears, to sit 
at my feet. Embracing one knee meditatively, he re- 
marked, as he watched my busy hands, — 

“ I believe it’s a shocking thing to say, and gives evi- 
dence of I don’t know how much natural depravity, but 
I appreciate your goodness in mending my socks ever so 
much more because you have such beautiful rings on.” 

I laughed, but I shook my head. 

‘‘ I remember, when I was a little child,” said I, “ I 
had some remarkable ideas about my proper destiny. I 
was an only child, and a good deal spoilt in one way or 
another, I suppose, so that I began to think that nothing 
that was good enough for ordinary people was good 
enough for me. Among other ideas, I made up my mind 
that I would marry a prince.” 

“ So you ought to have done,” said Harry, promptly. 
^‘And you would have satisfied the imagination as a 
princess, which is more than we can say for most of 
them.” 

“ Don’t interrupt. There’s a moral to my story, and I 
was just coming to it. An old nurse I had used to shake 
her head at me, and say that there was trouble in store 
for me, because I had ‘ notions.’ How, you have ‘ notions’ 
too.” 

“ I am content,” said Harry, with a courtly air, “ to 
resemble you in your defects, since it is out of my power 
to resemble you in your virtues.” 

There was a little pause, and then I asked, only half 
playfully, “ If I didn’t feel sure that it is just a young 
man’s way of talking, and nothing more, your cynical 
assumption of so many bad qualities would shock me a 

Harry looked up quickly and curiously, I thought. 

“ It is very good of you,” said he, “ to take any interest 
in me at all.” He began to play with the window- 
curtains, and after a short silence he asked, abruptly, 
‘^And so you once had a son. Tell me, why did you 
speak about him — to me?” 

I could not immediately answer him. Such a rush of 
12 


134 


MY CHILD AND L 


incoherent words seemed to rise to my lips, of passion- 
ate feelings to my heart. I felt choked by thought and 
emotion. My hands trembled, and I dropped my work. 
Turning my head away, I said, in a voice which was 
scarcely articulate, — 

Tell me — about yourself, your life, anything, every- 
thing you can remember.” 

Again, as I glanced at him, I caught the quick, bright 
glance of his eyes, and felt sure that he must know some- 
thing. Then obediently he began, — 

“ What shall I tell you ? Do you want an autobiogra- 
phy? If so, some of the details must be left to the 
imagination ; at least I can’t supply them.” 

“Never mind. Tell me all you do know — from the 
beginning. Your father? Your mother?” 

“Ah, I must break down on the very threshold. I 
never knew either of them.” But, as he spoke, I noticed 
a flush in his face, a conscious look in his eyes, which, in 
spite of his boasted accomplishment in falsehood, betrayed 
to me the fact that he knew or guessed more than he 
would own to. “ I have been in my aunt’s care, or rather 
my great-aunt’s, ever since I could remember.” 

The work lay in my lap and my hands were idle. 

“ And you can’t remember anything earlier than that?” 
said I, trying to subdue the tremulous earnestness in my 
voice as I put the question. “ You can’t remember being 
in the care of any one — of any person — who — who didn’t 

belong to you, who didn’t treat you well ? At least 

Of course not You were only a baby I” 

The words were out of my mouth, against my will, 
before I had time to consider what their effect would be. 
Having betrayed myself so far, I lost my self-command 
altogether; and rising, while needles and work fell in a 
heap on the floor, I walked to the window, and looked 
out through the rain at the traffic below, the umbrella- 
covered omnibuses, the broughams with their white- 
mackintoshed coachmen, the hansoms with their dripping 
drivers. In another moment I felt Harry’s breath upon 
my neck. 

“Won’t you tell me what you mean? Why did you 
say that ? Did you know my parents, or did you — ^have 
you — are you ” 

He was earnest, anxious, excited. There was no put- 


MY CHILD AND L 


135 


ting him off now. Turning, I put his hands in mine, and 
held them against my breast. 

“ I have lost my boy,” said I, tremulously. “ And I 
hope — I sometimes think — I may have found him !” 

He seemed as much moved as I. 

“ You are my mother?” he exclaimed, with unmistaka- 
ble satisfaction. “ Oh, if I could only think so ! It seems 
too good to be true. And yet — my aunt said my mother 
was beautiful, — said it in her way, that is, and not in so 
many words.” 

“ You are twenty-two ?” I asked, impulsively. 

« Yes.” 

“ And — and — your father’s name — was it Carey ?” 

“ Ho. It was really Henry Cunred Darent. But he 
called himself Harry Dare.” 

‘‘ And your mother’s ?” asked I, eagerly. 

“ I don’t know what her maiden name was. But her 
Christian name was Perdita.” 

My arms shook ; I felt as if I should fall to the ground. 
In a moment the boy’s arms were around me, and he was 
whispering in my ear, — 

‘‘ Mother ! My mother ! I’m so awfully glad you’re 
my mother !” 

Perhaps in every great crisis of feeling there is some 
shock, some jar. I was conscious, even in that supremely 
happy moment, when my boy’s voice, calling me “ mother,” 
sounded in my ears, that I missed something of joy for 
which I had so long hungered, and which had seemed so 
close to my lips. And yet, even with the feeling, came 
the thought that I had expected too much. How could 
this young fellow, who, if he had even known that his 
mother was alive, had certainly scarcely expected to see 
her as long as he lived, be prepared as I was for this 
meeting? Was it not unreasonable in me to hope that 
his feelings would be on the same plane as mine ? 

I sat down again in my chair, and he resumed his seat 
on the footstool ; but now I held his head on my lap, so 
that I could feast my eyes upon his face. 

“And you know something of the story,” I began, 
timidly, when we were seated, “ of your father and me, 
and — and of the other woman who stood in the way?” 

“ Oh, don’t talk of her T he said, hastily and harshly. 

“ Ah, you do know it, then 1” I cried, relieved to find 


136 


MY CHILD AND L 


that I had not to go again over the pitiful old story. 
‘‘ But, Harry, you must not be too hard upon your father. 
He was fond of me, too fond of me, and he let his fond- 
ness carry him away. He would have made me his wife 
if he had been free. And I thought I was his wife. He 
married me in a church, you know, — St. Clement Hanes.” 

Harry started. 

‘‘Hid he, though? I — I didn’t know that.” For a 
few moments he looked thoughtful ; then he said, “ Then 
how did you hear it was not a legal marriage ?” 

“ I didn’t know it until the first wife told me.” 

“ She told you that — that my father had married her 
first ?” 

“ Yes. And your aunt confirmed it. But how was I 
to blame, Harry ?” 

“ Why, of course, of course you were not,” he answered, 
hastily. “ And besides, what does it matter ? You’ve made 
a splendid marriage since ; you have everything you can 
wish for. Why trouble about it now ? I’m sure 1 don’t.” 

This speech jarred upon me. It was not that I re- 
gretted that he was reconciled to the fact that he could 
not bear his father’s name. But I would have chosen 
that he should look upon the misfortune differently. 

What does it matter?” It was a common-sense view, 
certainly, but yet 

“ Your aunt is very angry with me for wanting to see 
you. Hid you know that ?” I said, changing the subject. 

“ Oh, is that why she has taken herself off to Switzer- 
land in such a hurry ?” asked he, quickly. “ I thought it 
was my delinquencies which had frightened her away.” 
Again his light tone, in speaking of such grave errors as 
he had committed, jarred upon me. But he left me no 
time for thought. “ Tell me, mother,” said he, and the 
word made me forget everything but my happiness, 
“ how did you find me out ?” 

I told him the whole story of my two meetings with 
Lady Stephana, to which he listened attentively and 
without comment. I suppressed, in justice to the woman 
who had proved herself such a devoted guardian to him, 
the more unpleasant details of that lady’s behaviour to 
me all those years ago. But he said little about her, 
and I could not fail to see that, generous as she had been 
to him. Lady Stephana had never succeeded in taking a 


MY CHILD AND L 


137 


foremost place in his heart. When I had finished my 
story, all he said was, — 

“ You must not let her know that we have come to- 
gether, mother, you and I. She is jealous of mo, and it 
would break the old lady’s heart.” 

“ And I am afraid,” I said, sadly, “ that for the present 
I must not let my own husband know that I have found 
you. For he is very, very angry at what you have done. 
And so, Harry, am 1. It is sad to have to spoil this first 
meeting by scolding you, but oh, Harry, you will not do 
such a wicked thing again, will you ?” 

My dear mother,” said he, kneeling up to caress me, 
“ you don’t know what a corner I was in. I know I did 
wrong. But see, mother, how rough it is on a fellow to 
bring him up as if he would have any amount of money, 
and then suddenly to tell him he must manage to get 
along on what he’s been used to spend on his gloves 
alone. Mother, Aunt Stephana is a good soul, but 
these good souls are rather trying sometimes to the 
bad ones !” 

I could see that it was very likely the ideas of a rigid 
old lady and those of a lively young man would clash on 
the subject of expenditure, and of course I was inclined 
to take my boy’s part. I would not own to this, how- 
ever, and I said, gravely, — 

“ She is a very good woman, Harry, and generous and 
charitable. Think of her educating and providing for — 
why, not one, but two,” — I had suddenly remembered 
Deane, — “ two lads as if they had been her own I Who 
is this Deane Carey ? Is it his real name ?” 

Ho. He’s only one of her numerous proteges, and no 
relation to me at all, I believe. She has given us the 
same name, and she calls us cousins ; but we’re really 
nothing of the sort; only, as we’re great chums, we 
accept the position without any protest. By the bye, I 
feel jealous of Deane’s seeing you. He and luncheon 
will be here in a moment, but I am going to take you 
off before either of them appears. For you are my 
property, mine, mine.” 

And he gently pressed a kiss upon my forehead. I 
submitted to his caprice, as I was ready to submit *to 
anything at his hands. 

“ And you’ll come and see me here again, won’t you, 
12 * 


138 


MY CHILD AND L 


mother?” said he, coaxingly, as, in obedience to his 
imperious wish, 1 fastened my mantle and prepared to 
go out with him. “ And if my impecuniosity, which is 
chronic and severe, should prevent my entertaining you 
properly, you will partake of the humble biscuit and the 
lowly glass of water, and we will season the frugal fare 
with our happiness.” 

Indeed, indeed I will,” said I, in a trembling voice. 
‘‘ But, my boy, you need not be impecunious now. Do 
you want money? How much will you have ?” 

I had pulled out my purse, and was fumbling in it for 
the money my emotion would not let me see. He 
laughed, and laughingly pushed away my hand. 

“ Oh,” he cried, “ some good fairy help me to resist the 
temptation! What a sight for a fellow who has had to 
worship a half-crown respectfully !” 

With trembling fingers I took out a note, the only one 
I had with me, and some gold, and put them into the 
pocket nearest to me. He resisted, laughing, but finally 
yielded. And we went down-stairs together, and got 
into a passing hansom. Harry was treating me with 
quite open demonstrations of respect and affection, be- 
traying our relationship, indeed, to any eyes with powers 
to see. 

Just as we were about to drive off to a restaurant 
where he was going to take me to luncheon, we saw 
Deane Carey jumping in hot haste out of a hansom at 
the door. 

“ Deane in a hansom I What an extravagance for 
him!” cried Harry, good-humouredly, but somewhat 
disdainful. 

As I looked out at the young fellow, my heart smote 
me for the disappointment we were evidently inflicting 
upon him. For his face fell as he looked wistfully from 
Harry to me. 

“ Ah, I’m too late ! I always am,” said he, gently. 

“ Yes, old chap. As usual. Ta ta !” 

Again, as we drove off, my boy’s tone jarred upon me. 
I felt quite sorry for poor Deane, left to eat a lonely 
luncheon while we drove away. 


MY CHILD AND L 


139 


CHAPTEE XIX. 

In spite of those transient feelings of disappointment 
which I have mentioned, the day that I spent with my 
recovered son was, I think, the happiest of my life. 
Certainly it was the happiest I had spent since that far- 
off day when my baby was first put into my arms. I 
did indulge a dream, on that happy morning, that life 
would be transfigured to me now ; but my hopes were 
premature. When, after five delightful hours in Harry’s 
society, during which I had luncheon without knowing 
what I ate, and went through the Academy without 
knowing what I saw, I parted from my boy at Waterloo 
Station, I remembered for the first time that the sky was 
clouded and that the rain was pouring down, and that I 
was not yet in heaven, after all. A thousand considera- 
tions seemed now to crowd into my mind to obscure my 
happiness. In spite of, or perhaps because of. Lady 
Stephana’s austere goodness, my son’s principles were 
evidently not such as a mother could contemplate with 
peace of mind. He had already been guilty of forgery, 
and the crime in his case was rendered more appalling 
by the fact that the victim of it was the guardian who 
had taken charge of him since his babyhood. I confess 
frankly to a shameful feeling of vindictiveness towards 
Lady Stephana for her treatment of myself, which in- 
clined me to think that it must be partly her fault that 
my boy had started his early manhood so ill. I was full 
of hope that the mother he was so evidently ready to 
love might have a better influence over him ; and I even 
stifled the wicked maternal jealousy in my heart so far 
as to hope that the girl he loved would have a better 
influence still. I had too long severely censured those 
mothers who assume an antagonistic attitude towards 
their sons’ sweethearts and wives not to try to avoid 
falling into that pitfall myself. 

On the whole, I rejoiced that his choice had fallen 
upon Meg, who, although a spoilt, audacious, and self- 
willed little mortal, was also a good and sweet girl, with 


140 


MY CHILD AND X. 


intelligence enough to understand a man and character 
enough to be an influence for good with him. 

Meg had been exceedingly puzzled by my sudden 
journey to town. I had grown too luxurious in my 
habits to be fond of the rain, and she knew of no urgent 
business to take me up to town. Eeticent herself, how- 
ever, at least towards me, she respected my reticence, 
and said nothing to her father or her step-brother about 
my hurried journey. 

When we were sitting together in the dra wing-room 
that evening, I, from the fulness of my heart, found it 
impossible not to speak on the subject dearest to me. 

“ I met one of the young Careys in town to-day,’^ I 
said, trying to speak in a casual tone. 

Meg, who was not easily deceived, fixed her eyes upon 
me steadily. 

“Indeed! Which one?” she asked, with as unsuc- 
cessful an affectation of indifference as my own. 

“ Oh, the nice one,” returned I, to see what she would 
say. 

“ And which do you call the nice one ? The one who 
talks your head off in five minutes, without saying a 
word worth listening to, or the one who is so glum that 
when you have talked at him for a quarter of an hour 
you feel as if you must lie back and fan yourself?” 

“You are rather severe on both of them,” said I, 
smiling. 

“ Now, are not both my descriptions perfectly just ?” 
said Meg, who was evidently delighted to talk upon the 
subject at all. 

“ Well, neither the talkative one nor the taciturn one 
seemed to bore you as much as you declare that most 
young men do.” 

“ That is true,” said Meg, meditatively, with mischief 
and amusement in her eyes. “Neither of them does 
bore me. One has to work too hard with the one, in 
order to keep conversation going at all ; and as for the 
other, why, his incessant chatter does not bore, it abso- 
lutely stuns one.” 

“ But the process is not unpleasant ?” 

“Not altogether, perhaps.” 

“Ah!” 

Presently Meg left off smiling. 


MY CHILD AND L 


141 


“ I sha’n’t have much chance of being either stunned 
or overworked by them again,” she said, as I thought, 
rather gloomily. “ I never knew papa speak so harshly 
of any young fellow as he does of Harry Carey. He 
says he’s a scoundrel, a thief, and a ” 

“ Oh, hush, hush I” I cried, unable to conceal my dis- 
tress. He ought not to use such words. It isn’t right, 
it isn’t fair. He is a very young man, and he has been 
spoilt, over-indulged, perhaps over-lectured. With a good 
woman at his side to love him, to correct his faults with 
tenderness, to give him her sympathy, to encourage 
what is best in him, he would be a good man, a noble 
man, I am sure.” 

I had been carried away by my own feelings. I was 
abruptly recalled to myself by finding Meg’s pitiless 
black eyes fixed upon me more steadily than ever. 

“Oho!” she said. “It is easy to see which is your 
favourite.” 

“Well,” I said, in some confusion, “I think he is 
everybody’s.” 

Meg looked suddenly away into the garden, where the 
shadows were growing blacker, while the lawn was out- 
lined in the distance by the silver line of the moonlit 
water. 

“ Yes,” she said, in a peculiar tone of voice which puz- 
zled me, “ Harry is everybody’s favourite. Poor — 
Harry I” 

In the pause which followed, we heard the dining- 
room door open, and a burst of talk and laughter an- 
nounced the approach of the gentlemen and closed our 
conversation. 

It was on the second morning after this conversation 
that an invitation came for us all to a launch party 
further up the river. I passed the note round without 
comment for general inspection. My husband glanced 
at it first, and, briefly observing, “ Not me I” threw it 
across to Burgess. 

“ The Everetts ! H’m !” said he, critically. “ Cham- 
pagne very good, — nobody who had a grandfather ever 
gives such champagne, — it’s waste, wanton, wicked waste! 
That’s one side of the question. But then those girls ! 
They’re so d — d plain, and there’s such a d — d lot of 
them : 


142 


MY CHILD AND L 


* It’s daughters, daughters everywhere, 

And not a girl to kiss ! ’ ” 

Burgess I” I cried, mucn shocked. 

One was always being shocked at The Limes, either by 
Burgess or by his father, or by one of the rackety visi- 
tors. The occurrence was so frequent that my reproofs 
had grown to be quite conventional ; while, as Burgess 
was about the only person I ventured to address them 
to, they were largely ineffectual in raising the standard 
of the daily conversation. Even Meg’s more pungent 
comments failed to keep her step-brother in order. 

‘‘ I’m sure, Burgess, your absence will make no differ- 
ence to the daughters, though it may to the champagne,” 
she said, dryly. 

“ While your absence won’t even affect that.” 

‘‘ I’m not going to try the effect of absence,” said Meg, 
imperturbably. “I’m going.” 

I looked up in surprise. I frowned a little too, for, if 
Meg chose to go, I should have to go too to chaperon her ; 
and the prospect of spending some hours of a hot day 
broiling slowly in the confined area of an overcrowded 
steam-launch, with a number of people whom I scarcely 
knew and scarcely liked, had for my mature mind no 
attractions whatever. Meg glanced at me in a stealthy 
way, and, seeing that neither Burgess nor her father was 
looking at her, managed to convey by the silent move- 
ment of her lips the following information : 

“ The Careys will be there.” 

So I made no objection to our accepting the invitation. 

The day of the picnic, opening cloudily, developed into 
what Burgess, who had decided to accompany us, termed 
“ a regular scorcher.” I was by no means grateful for 
his escort, and Meg was so angry when she heard of his 
intention that she was at one time on the point of sacri- 
ficing her own chances of pleasure by not going herself. 
The fact was that both she and I, knowing Burgess’s 
malignant love of mischief and his peculiar keenness in 
scenting out and worrying any little feminine secret of 
ours, feared that he had ferreted out something of our 
motives, and meant to wriggle himself into the very 
heart of the little mystery. 

This idea was strengthened when he uttered a partic- 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


143 


ularly offensive laugh on perceiving that both of us had 
taken especial pains to look our best. 

“ Dear me !” he exclaimed, ironically, as he examined 
us with a critical eye, how awfully smart we are to- 
day I Just for an up-river crush, too, which I’ve heard 
Meg say a dozen times anything was good enough for. 
Everetts are at a premium evidently.” 

Uneasily, Meg affected superb disdain, while I pre- 
tended not to hear him. We knew that he had heard 
Mr. Keen’s diatribes against the Careys, and we felt that 
the events of the day would be sure to put us more or 
less in his power. So the railway journey to Maidenhead 
was an uncomfortable one, during which we women both 
abased ourselves by treating the monster with unusual 
deference. 

I had not asked Meg how she had learnt that the 
Careys were to be of the party ; but her information, 
however obtained, proved to be correct. Harry was the 
first person to meet us, and his shy cousin was only a 
little way behind him. We all got on board the launch 
and steamed gently up the river to a spot which had 
been already selected as the place for our picnic. Here 
we disembarked, and proceeded, not in the rough-and- 
ready fashion of genuine picnickers, but with all the 
state of the parvenu who brings liveried servants to 
spread a cloth on the grass for him, to eat a late but 
gorgeous luncheon. 

There comes a season of life, even to the most frivo- 
lous, when one prefers one’s cold lamb without earwigs ; 
and I, who had reached that season, should have been 
much bored but for the presence of my son. The 
younger members of the party, however, seemed to enjoy 
themselves greatly, especially Harry and Meg, whose 
battles of repartee gave life to the entertainment. 

In order to afford some variety of amusement, a flotilla 
of skiffs and canoes had been brought to this point, and, 
when the luncheon was eaten, the party broke up into 
small sections, the older members of it remaining faith- 
ful to the solid merits of the launch, while the younger 
ladies trusted themselves to the powers of the amateur 
oarsmen who were eager to prove their skill. 

To my great pleasure, Harry, instead of inviting one 
of the young girls to embark with him, offered his 


144 


MY CHILD AND L 


services to me. I was very anxious for an opportunity 
of a talk with him, as the extravagant young man’s 
appeals for money had become so frequent that I was 
afraid my sudden and unusual requests for money would 
excite my husband’s suspicions. But when I found that 
the craft of his choice was a double canoe, I drew back 
and declined to venture, on the ground that I valued my 
life. 

Harry, standing upright in the canoe, and confirming 
me in my decision by his reckless movements, proceeded 
to argue with me on my answer. 

“ I am ashamed, Mrs. Keen,” he began, gravely, “ to 
hear you base your refusal on so paltry a plea I There 
is no more fatal sign of the degeneracy of the present 
age than the absurdly high value now set upon human 
life. The hardy Saxons and Horsemen, who were our 
ancestors, were troubled by no such sickly sentimental 
feeling. If we could preserve our lives indefinitely, there 
might be something in it. But we cannot. And I con- 
sider that this miserable clinging to life for a few more 
weary years, instead of a spirited readiness to die at 
once under pleasant and romantic circumstances and 
with an amiable and accomplished companion, is both 
weak and foolish. Once more I ask you, will you 
come ?” 

“I will come with pleasure, but not in a double 
canoe.” 

I wish I could write music-hall songs,” said Harry, 
pensively. Think of this : 

‘ Over the seas with you, dear boy, 

Sailing the wide world through ; 

Over the seas with a nice little breeze, 

But not in a double canoe 1’ 

It would make the fortune of a serio-comic. For the 
last time, will you come ?” 

“ And be drowned ?” 

“ Well, and take your chance?” 

“ Ho, thank you.” 

‘‘ Well, Miss Keen, will you ?” 

“ Take my chance ? H’m !” 

“Don’t, children, don’t talk like that!” said I, ner- 
vously. “ You never know what may happen.” 


Mr CHILD AND L 


145 


IS'ow this was a speech worthy of a washerwoman, 
and I got deservedly laughed at and made ashamed of 
it. And the young people went oif in their boats, the 
double canoe, with Ilarry and Meg in it, taking the 
lead. 

“ It was too bad to laugh at you, Mrs. Keen,” said a 
shy voice, close to my ear. “ As a matter of fact, Ilarry 
is so reckless and so careless that in such a light craft 
as a canoe to go through a lock with him is not without 
danger.” 

It was Deane who said this, and I was so much 
alarmed by his words that I sat on thorns until the 
launch came up with the little boats, and we all went 
into the lock together. Deane, who, if not a very lively 
companion, was a pleasant and considerate one, s^t by 
me, it being the first opportunity Ilarry had allowed 
him of doing so. 

“ Where are they ? Where is the canoe ?” I asked, 
anxiously, as we passed through the gates. 

“It’s all right. They went in in front of us, and 
they are on the other side of the launch. I’ll go and 
see if they’re all right, if you like, and keep an eye on 
our erratic friend.” 

He had scarcely risen from his seat when there was a 
cry, and a rush was made to the other side of the launch* 
I recognised Meg’s voice, and was for a moment para- 
lyzed by what I felt to be a realization of my fears. 
Then I heard Deane’s voice, calling out peremptorily, 
“ Make way, please, make way !” He had something in 
his hand which I could only see to be a long pole, and 
the next moment he was leaning over the side of the 
launch. 

“ Harry, Harry !” I cried, faintly, as I tried to push 
my way through the group to see what was taking 
place. 

A voice, I don’t know whose, cried out, rather con- 
temptuously, — 

“ Oh, he's all right ! That young man can look after 
himself!” 

A film seemed to pass over my eyes. 

“And she, she?” 

I did not hear the answer. But in a few seconds I 
saw what I at first took for the lifeless body of Meg, 
Q k 13 


146 


MV CHILD AND L 


lying on the bank beside the lock. The cry of distress 
which I uttered brought Deane Carey to my side. He 
looked very white and much agitated. 

“ She is all right ; at least I think so, I hope so,'’ said 
he. 

It was Burgess’s voice which answered him. 

‘^Yes, she’s all right. — that is to say, she’s alive, — 
thanks to your presence of mind, Mr. Carey. As for 
that confounded fool your cousin, whose d — d careless- 
ness caused the spill, she might have drowned, for all 
he cared. The cur thought of nothing but saving him- 
self” 

‘‘Honsense,” said Deane, peremptorily. “A man isn’t 
to be judged by what he does when he finds himself 
thrown suddenly into the water. If his position and 
mine had been reversed, so would our actions have 
been.” 

“ I’m d — d if they would,” replied Burgess, bluntly. 

I trembled as I listened. In a few moments Burgess 
and I had been landed and had accompanied Meg, who 
had been rendered almost unconscious by striking her 
head against the side of another boat when she was 
thrown into the water by the capsizing of the canoe, 
into the lock-keeper’s cottage. Here she soon recovered ; 
and, having borrowed some clothes from the lock-keeper’s 
wife, while her own were left to dry, we got into a fiy, 
which Burgess had been lucky enough to get, to drive 
to Maidenhead Station. 

When we had got into the train and were on the point 
of starting, Deane, with a shy: crimson face, ran up to 
the window. 

‘‘Is she — I mean Miss Keen — all right?” he asked, 
anxiously. “ I’ve been waiting here to ask.” 

Meg herself was sitting by the window. To my 
astonishment, she answered his solicitous question with 
great stiffness. 

“ There is nothing the matter with me, thank you.” 

And poor Deane, smarting from the snub, raised his 
hat and retreated hastily. I turned to her, much scan- 
dalized by her behaviour. 

“ Don’t you know, Meg, that it was Mr. Deane Carey 
who in all probability saved your life ? You were being 
dragged down under the boats when he caught you.” 


MY CHILD AND L 


147 


Yes, I know, — with a boat-hook !” cried the girl, 
ironically. “ It hurt my back !” 

“Eeally,” said Burgess, impatiently, “you seem more 
grateful to that wretched Harry for half drowning you 
than to his cousin for saving your life.” 

Again I shook my head reprovingly ; but in my heart 
I felt glad that she did not bear Harry any malice for 
the carelessness which had allowed the stern of the 
canoe to get fixed on the stone coping of the lock when 
the water was going down. 


CHAPTEK XX. 

I GOT home that evening unhappy and irritable. 
Everybody semed to accuse Harry, either openly or 
tacitly, of selfishness as well as carelessness in the matter 
of the accident. They said he had not even turned his 
head to see what became of his companion, even when 
he himself had been assisted into a friendly boat. No- 
body except Deane had taken his part openly, although 
Meg had refrained from joining in the outcry against 
him. 

I think both Meg and I were troubled by thoughts of 
what Mr. Keen would say. It was impossible to hope 
to keep the story of the accident from him. As it 
turned out, he was waiting for us at the gates of The 
Limes, and her borrowed costume betrayed her at once. 

He heard all the details from Burgess, but, to my 
great relief, he gave no other sign of displeasure that 
night than was indicated by an especial abruptness of 
manner. On the following morning, however, when he 
distributed the letters to us at breakfast, according to 
his custom, he frowned as he read the direction on one 
for his daughter. 

“ I know that fist, Meg,” said he. “ And it’s from a 
person who has no business to write to you. Open it 
and see what the rascal has the impudence to say.” 

I hid myself as well as I could behind my letters 
and my silver kettle, for I guessed from whom the letter 
came. Meg opened and read it very quietly. 


148 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


“ It is from Mr. Carey, papa, Mr. Harry Carey.’’ 

‘‘I know, I know. Well, is it a love-letter?” 

Oh, no. It is an apology for what happened yes- 
terday.” 

And, to my surprise, she handed the letter up for in- 
spection. With an air of intense disgust, my husband 
ran his eyes over the note, nodded, and tossed it back 
again to her. 

“ You’re sure,” he then asked, with sudden suspicion, 
that he has never written to you before ?” 

“ Onlj^ once, when I was at Aunt Di’s, he sent a note 
with a book he was returning.” 

My husband was satisfied and I was surprised. Meg, 
although rather reticent, was decidedly truthful. But I 
had certainly imagined the two to be in correspondence. 
My husband went on, impressively : 

‘‘Very well. I’m glad to hear it. I might have done 
you the justice to believe that you wouldn’t be taken in 
by such a shallow rascal. But as older women than you 
have been deceived into thinking him the open-hearted, 
generous fellow he emphatically is not,” — he uttered 
these words with so much emphasis that I trembled lest 
they should be directed at me, — “ I think it best to warn 
you that he is a selfish young scoundrel, not only fast, 
but vicious. And I should be very sorry for any lady 
of my family to give him a second thought.” 

“ Indeed, papa, the Careys are nothing to me,” said 
Meg, who, in spite of her haughty tone, had tears in 
her eyes. 

“ Oh, as to the cousin I make a distinction,” returned 
her father, in a different tone. “ I have never heard any 
ill of that lad, and I owe him a good turn for his be- 
haviour yesterday. I shall bring him down to dinner 
this evening if I can.” 

Meg expressed no gratitude, and I was incensed at 
this wrong to my own boy. That silent prig, Deane, to 
be made much of, while poor Harry was left out in the 
cold ! Suddenly my husband got up from the table, and, 
coming round to me, thrust a letter before my eyes. I 
started. It was a letter from Harry to me. 

“ What’s he got to say to you f” asked my husband, 
shortly. “ I know that young man’s fist a little too well, 
you see !” . 


MY CHILD AND L 


149 


“I can’t think, I’m sure,” I answered, in a trembling 
voice. For I was by no means prepared to go through 
the ordeal Meg had done, and hand the letter up to be 
read. It would certainly begin, “ My darling mother,” 
and would almost as certainly contain an appeal for 
more money. Therefore I put it down beside my plate 
as if it had been of no consequence, and went on pouring 
out tea. After waiting a few seconds, my husband re- 
turned to his seat, and, allowing a decent interval, I 
mastered the contents of my letter at a glance, and, 
saying carelessly that it was a repetition to me of Mr. 
Carey’s apology to Meg, I thrust the note into my 
pocket. 

Now, I had only told part of the truth in saying the 
letter was an apology. It did indeed begin with that, 
but it went on to beg me to meet him at Waterloo in 
his luncheon-hour that day, and “ not to forget my poor 
hoy’s necessities.” I was almost at my wits’ end as to 
how those perpetually recurring necessities were to be 
met. My husband’s allowance to me for my private ex- 
penses was a liberal one, but since my discovery of my 
extravagant boy I had already had to beg for a supple- 
mentary cheque. This had been given without a mur- 
mur ; but, even if I could have reconciled it to my con- 
science to obtain from him more money to devote to a 
purpose of which he would most strongly have disap- 
proved, it was most unlikely that a second application 
within so short a period would be received with the 
same liberality. 

So, having escaped further questioning for that time, 
I kept my boy’s appointment at Waterloo with an un- 
easy mind. Harry received me with his usual demon- 
strative affection, and, taking me into the waiting-room, 
overwhelmed me with inquiries about myself and about 
Meg, so that for a time the business of this meeting was 
thrust out of my mind. At a pause in our talk, how- 
ever, my trouble returned to me. 

“My dear Harry,” I began, in a grave, judicial tone, 
“ I have something very serious to say to you.” 

“ Oh, marmie, must we spoil this delightful time by 
talking of anything unpleasant?” he asked, as if no 
inkling of the meaning of m}^ words occurred to him. 

“ I am afraid so, Harry. It is about money.” 

13 * 


150 


MV CHILD AND L 


‘‘ Oh, that’s an unpleasant subject indeed, especially 
for me, who never have any!” 

“ But, my dear boy, I gave you fifty pounds only the 
other day I” 

“ Yes, so you did, mother, and Heaven bless you for 
it. If you had not, I should now most certainly have 
been in Holloway gaol. It’s the debts, the debts, mother, 
that worry me sol You see. Aunt Stephana has always 
kept me so short that I simply couldn’t live, careful as I 
might be, without running into debt. And now that, 
thanks to you, I have been able to settle the most press- 
ing of them, my other creditors have got wind of it, 
and now all the rest of the brutes have come down on 
me together!” 

^‘All the rest! Why, how much do you owe still? 
You have had altogether two hundred and seventy -five 
from me, and I understood ” 

“ Oh, my darling mother, if you have understood any- 
thing of the whole confounded business, it’s more than 
I have. I’m certain they have a sj’stem of adding an 
item here, and a little bit there, until a modest little 
debt of ten pounds becomes, without your being able to 
note the stages of the transformation, a big, bloated bill 
for twenty -five!” 

‘^And how much do you owe still? And, Harry, I 
must ask you, what sort of debts are they ? Whom do 
you owe them to ? I can’t help thinking you must have 
been very extravagant to run up such heavy bills when 
you are earning a salary!” 

“ Oh, well, mother, don’t trouble about it any more. 
I have been sold up before ; I can bear being sold up 
again.” 

Sold up !” echoed I, anxiously. 

Yes. An old rascal that I had a lot of books from, 
law books that I had to read up, and mathematical in- 
struments, says he’ll sell me up if I don’t pay him the 
whole amount I owe him to-morrow morning.” 

“ Oh, Harry, this is dreadful! How much is it?” 

‘‘ Thirty five or six pounds, I believe.” 

“ So much ? For books ?” 

“ Mother, I told you not to trouble your head about it. 
I had to have the books, as it happened. But I don’t say 
that I don’t owe for a lot of other things I could have 


MY CHILD AND L 


151 


done without You see, I have had nobody to look after 
me, in the way you would have done, nobody to feel 
unhappy when I did things that were foolish or wrong.” 

“ You had your aunt, my boy,” I suggested, gently. 

“ She’s a very good woman, and a dear old thing ; but 
she’s not like you — or Meg. By the bye, how is Meg, — 
Miss Keen, I ought to say ? Do you think she will ever 
care for me, mother ?” 

I sighed. 

I don’t know. And I don’t know what would happen 
if she were to care for you. You see, Mr. Keen was very 
much shocked by — by what you did ; and when he once 
makes up his mind, his prejudices are very strong indeed.” 

Harry looked grave and thoughtful. 

“ Then you don’t think he would ever consent to her 
marrying me ?” 

I hesitated. 

“ For a girl like her, whom I could respect as well as 
love,” Harry went on, “ I could do so much ! I could 
become a better fellow for a girl like that. Of course,” 
and he began to speak more slowly, it would be a terri- 
ble responsibility if I were to marry her without her 
father’s consent, because in that case he wouldn’t leave 
her any of his money, and she is hardly fitted, pretty 
little butterfly as she is, for a poor man’s wife.” 

“ Well, she will have her mother’s money, in any case.” 

He looked at me quickly, and I thought he was going 
to say something. But if so, he checked himself, and 
there was silence between us for some moments. At last 
he jumped up, saying, “ Well, mother, I shall have to be 
getting back. It was very good of you to come all this 
way to see me.” 

But what — what are you going to do ?” asked I, hesi- 
tatingly. 

I was miserable, full of anxiety about him. 

“What, about the execution? Oh, he must do what 
he likes,” returned Harry, with a shrug of the shoulders. 
“ Don’t look so miserable, mother; it’s no more than your 
naughty boy deserves ” 

As he spoke, he took my right hand in his. He had 
himself drawn off my glove, in order that, with his 
pretty demonstration of affection, he could caress my 
fingers. He now held the hand, and putting his fore- 


152 


MV CHILD AND L 


finger and thumb one on each side of a beautiful ring I 
wore, twisted it about while he held his head on one side 
to look at it admiringly. The movement put an idea 
into my head : I had no money with me, but I could give 
him this ring. Without an instant’s hesitation, I drew 
otf the ring, and placed it in his hand. 

“ Take this,” said I, impulsively. “ I don’t want you 
to sell it. My husband gave it to me, and he would be 
sure to miss it. But you can raise some money on it. I 
believe it cost a hundred and twenty guineas. If you 
can’t get it back for me yourself, let me know, and I’ll 
manage it.” 

Harry thanked me with tears in his eyes ; and with a 
flush in his face, which showed that he was ashamed of 
obliging me to make such a sacrifice, he looked alternately 
at my face and at the ring. I was rather alarmed the 
moment I had done this thing, for the ring was a unique 
one, and I was seized by a fear that it might be seen and 
recognised. It contained twin diamonds of great beauty, 
surmounted by a tiny crown of much smaller stones. 

“ You are too good, much too good to me. I am not 
worthy of your goodness to me.” 

He was very much moved, and I took advantage of the 
feeling to deliver the following little lecture, leaning upon 
his arm as he took me towards my train. 

“ It is a sacrifice, my dear boy, and it may put me into 
great difficulties if my husband should have his suspicions 
aroused as to what I have done with it. For, on some- 
body’s account, you know, I have been extravagant 
lately.” 

I know, I know,” he whispered, brokenly. 

“ But the sacrifice is nothing because it is made for 
you, made for my son. Nothing seems to me of any 
value compared with his happiness and his well-being. 
Eemember that, my son, when you feel inclined to be 
too rash or too reckless again.” 

He was hardly able to speak ; but he pressed my hand 
against his side, and cleared his throat two or three times. 
And when he had put me into my train, he whispered, — 

“ Mother, I shall never forget your goodness, never.” 

And so, though indeed I had not exaggerated my fears 
concerning the difficulty I should have in concealing the 
loss of my ring from my husband, I returned home in 


MY CHILD AND L 


153 


the full belief that I had given the too thoughtless Harry, 
together with a proof of my affection, a lesson he would 
not easily forget. 

That afternoon my husband came back early from 
town, and I congratulated myself that I had returned so 
speedily. He was in great good humor, and I gathered 
that he had got with profit out of some business by which 
he had begun to fear that he should lose money. He 
ordered the mail-phaeton round, and took me for a drive, 
finishing up by a call at the Star and Garter at Eichmond, 
where one of his clients was staying. 

He left me sitting in the phaeton while he went into 
the hotel. The weather was very hot, and, although I 
was in the shade, I was holding my sunshade up and 
feeling languid and listless. The conversation of two 
well-dressed young men who were standing, the one on 
the steps and the other just below him, reached my ears 
like the humming of bees. They were in ecstasies of 
admiration over a very smartly turned-out drag which 
was coming up the hill. 

“ That’s one of the best-looking teams I’ve seen for a 
long time,” said one. 

“Yes. Saw ’em in the park yesterday. Know the 
chap driving ’em ?” 

“ Eather. Quite a young fellow. Don’t know where 
he gets his monej^ from ; but, as he’s the present posses- 
sor of the affections of Kitty Dynevor, I suppose he’s 
got some.” 

“ What’s his name ?” 

“Carey; Harry Carey. He’s some relation to Lord 
Wallinghurst’s family; at least it’s supposed so. Calls 
Lady Stephana Darent his aunt.” 

“ Oh, that’s the chap, is it ?” said his friend, with fresh 
interest. “ I’ve heard of him, then. The old lady dotes 
upon him, and has had to shell out pretty freely to sup- 
port the young man’s extravagance. Those sort of chaps 
ofien do get a bigger share of the family ready cash than 
the legitimate members.” 

I had heard this colloquy, from the first mention of 
Harry’s name, in a fever of amazement and despair. 
For, looking out from under my sunshade, I had seen 
the coach with its four bright bays, seen Kitty Dynevor, 
the dancer, with her cream-coloured face, scarlet lips. 


154 


MY CHILD AND L 


and copper hair, sitting on the box-seaib beside my son. 
Then I don’t know what happened, until my husband’s 
voice roused me. 

“ Perdita, my dear, my dear, you are ill !” 

And when I entirely recovered my senses, I was sitting 
in a large room, beside an open window looking on to 
the renowned terrace. 

I believe it was the sound of my son’s voice, laughing 
and talking gaily with his companions on the terrace 
below me, which brought me to myself. 

“ Let us go. I shall be better at home,” I cried, rising 
quickly to my feet. 

But as I rose, giving an instinctive glance at the group 
outside, I witnessed a sight which almost deprived me 
for the second time of the use of my limbs. 

Kitty Dynevor had taken off her gloves, and was 
showing one of the young men, not Harry, the ring 
which I had given him that morning. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

How, although I was so far from the group on the 
terrace when Kitty Dynevor showed the ring on her 
finger to her companion, that it was more by intuition 
than by actual sight that I knew that the ring was mine, 
I was instantly seized by a fear that my husband would 
see and recognise it also. Instantly turning to him, 
therefore, and renewing my entreaties that he would take 
me home, I raised my voice sufficiently for Harry him- 
self, on the terrace outside, to turn at the sound. He 
recognised me at the same moment that my husband 
recognised him. 

Harry turned quite white, while I instantly averted 
my eyes from his face. This incident, however, had the 
desired effect of making my husband quite as anxious to 
get away as I was. 

“ There’s that d — d rascal who nearly drowned Meg !” 
he cried, in no very subdued tones. For one moment I 
thought that he meant to “ go for” Harry there and then. 
But Harry, evidently thinking discretion the better part 
of valour, turned at once, and disappeared in the grounds. 


MY CHILD AND L 


155 


Whereupon Mr. Keen turned, and vented some of his 
anger upon me. 

“It was seeing that little cur again so soon that upset 
you, I expect,” he said, angrily. “ If, after what I told 
you about him, you had had the sense to forbid Meg to 
go in the same boat with him, the accident wouldn’t have 
happened. I consider you partly to blame for what took 
place. Now come along. Let’s get out of the place. 
If I see that little scoundrel again, I shall have to wring 
his neck.” 

He had no need to complain of my dilatoriness; I 
hurried out as fast as my trembling limbs would let me, 
and we drove home almost in silence. 

On reaching The Limes, we were told that Mr. Deane 
Carey was in the drawing-room. Although he had come 
by my husband’s express invitation, the very sound of 
his name, being that of his cousin, sufficed to increase 
my husband’s ill humour, and he greeted the poor lad so 
shortly that Deane’s shyness was increased. Meg had 
been entertaining him, as well as two more friends who 
had come down by the same train as the young man. I 
was myself inclined to resent Deane’s presence, partly 
because it reminded me of his cousin, with whom I felt 
I had quarrelled forever, my son that was ; and partly 
because, in spite of this feeling, I was inconsistent enough 
to be angry that Deane could come to the house while 
Harry could not. 

I had j ust fairness enough to see that this attitude was 
cruelly hard upon shy Deane, who, to judge by his un- 
happy expression, had had something to put up with at 
the hands of Meg also. So I whispered to my husband 
that he had not yet thanked Deane for his timely help 
to the girl on the previous day. 

“ Oh, yes, yes, to be sure,” grumbled he, rather ungra- 
ciously. And, turning abruptly to his other friends, two 
old racing men who were great chums of his and who 
were frequent visitors at The Limes, he said, raising his 
hand and bringing it down heavily on Deane’s shoulder, — 

“ This chap isn’t such a fool as he looks, boys. My 
little girl took it into her head yesterday to trust herself 
on the river with a hare-brained ass who knows more 
about bills than he does about boats, and behaves about 
as well with the one as with the other.” 


156 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


The ancient boys began to laugh ; and as poor Deane 
looked exceedingly uncomfortable at Mr. Keen’s com- 
ments on himself and on his cousin, my husband shook 
his arm with rough good humour, and went on, with 
another slap on the young fellow’s back : 

‘‘ Well, this chap kept his head.” 

“ And his boat-hook !” cried Meg, ironically. ‘‘ Papa, 
we’ve been trying to avoid this subject for the last hour. 
There’s nothing heroic about saving a person’s life with 
a boat-hook, and, besides, it hurt me.” 

“ Why, you ungrateful girl,” began her father, with a 
laugh, in which everybody joined. 

“ Miss Keen’s quite right, sir,” said Deane, who had 
grown purple with shyness, but who was encouraged by 
the laughter to speak out his mind. “It’s really an 
awful thing to have done, and all I can plead in extenu- 
ation is that it’s better to be hooked up like a fish than 
drowned like a cat.” 

“ Thank you very much for the simile,” said Meg. “ It 
is just what I should have expected from a man who 
would pull me out with a boat-hook instead of plunging 
into the water himself in the orthodox fashion.” 

“But then,” objected Deane, mildly, “as I am not a 
very good swimmer and there was no room to swim, I 
should certainly have been drowned, and in all probably 
so would you.” 

“ I’m really not quite sure that I shouldn’t have pre- 
ferred that to being saved with a boat-hook,” said Meg, 
with asperity. 

“Then I apologize for saving you,” said Deane, in 
whom Meg’s rude as well as cruel taunts were rousing a 
spirit which began to get the better even of his shyness. 

The other gentlemen were rather amused by the war 
of words, but 1 confess that to a middle-aged matron 
like myself this very unconventional conduct of Meg’s 
towards the man who had saved her life seemed to me 
rather shocking. 

“ My dear Meg,” said I, nervously, “ you’re really very 
unkind. I assure you, Mr. Carey, that her father and I 
are very grateful to you, whatever she may be.” 

“ Why, so am I,” said Meg, lightly. 

And, springing up from her chair, she turned to Deane 
and said, “ In token of my gratitude I will show you 


MY CHILD AND L 


157 


over the hot-houses iu the few minutes we have left 
before dinner.” 

Taking it for granted that he would follow her, she 
flitted off through the French window, looking, in her 
dress of plain gold-coloured silk, with frills of apricot 
chiffon at the neck and sleeves, like some gorgeous 
winged insect. 

The details of the scene which followed I heard long 
afterwards. She went straight towards the hot-houses, 
without so much as looking to see if her companion was 
following. Now Meg was a wicked little creature, by 
turns prude and coquette, who would sometimes treat 
the men of her acquaintance with haughty indifference 
which prevented them from becoming her admirers, 
and sometimes, on the other hand, took it into her head 
to be so charming that even to an unwilling slave she 
became irresistible. At the door of the first hot-house 
she came to she suddenly stopped, and, looking up at 
Deane with an expression of the most piquant devilry, 
said, suddenly, — 

“ Do you want to be thanked for the boat-hook busi- 
ness ? By me, I mean ? I can make the most beautiful 
set-speech to you, if you like. I was making it up last 
night instead of going to sleep, and I got it right, down 
to the very last column. But you know I couldn’t say 
it before all those people, like a school-girl on prize-day ; 
now, could I ?” 

‘‘Well, it would have been rather rough upon me, 
certainly, because, you see, I couldn’t have been prepared 
with a set answer, including semicolons.” 

“ Talking about semicolons,” said Meg, staring intently 
at an aloe in flower a little way behind her companion, 
“ how can you tell when to use a colon and when only a 
semi? It seems to me it is a matter requiring great 
judgment, — more than I possess, at any rate.” 

“Was there any difficulty of that kind in — ^in the 
speech, then?” inquired Deane, gravely. 

“ Yes, there was. By the bye, wouldn’t you like to 
hear the speech ? Just for the sake of settling the colon 
difficulty, it might be worth while.” 

And she put her head on one side to look up at him, 
with one of her little brisk, bird-like gestures. 

“ Certainly I should.” 


14 


158 


MY CHILD AND L 


Will you hear it inside or outside the hot-house ?” 

“ That depends. If the sentiment expressed in it be 
very warm, I should prefer to remain outside, or if the 
grammar is as loose as a lady’s is sometimes apt to be, I 
think I might bear it better out here in the open. But 
if the whole is of academic frigidity and correctness, 
why, then let’s go inside.” 

It’s extremely difficult to criticise one’s own composi- 
tions. What about the cool orchid-house, as a sort of 
happy medium? Then, if you should feel as it goes on 
that my expressions are not up to the necessary fervour, 
you could dash into the next house, which is, oh, warm 
enough for anything.” 

“ That’s an excellent idea.” 

‘‘ I shall have to take you a little farther, and, oh, I’ve 
brought no sunshade, so my hands will get brown.” 

Are you so careful as all that ? When there’s no sun 
left, to speak of I” 

“Well, sometimes I am. Mamma is more particular 
than I. She says it looks very bad to see a brown hand 
at the end of a white arm. Like mine, do you see?” 

And she raised for his inspection two pretty, slender, 
white arms, bare from elbow to wrist, and two equally 
pretty little hands, which were certainly, however, some 
shades browner. 

“ I see,” said he. 

“ And do you think it looks bad?” 

“ I shouldn’t like to say that.” 

“ But you may, if you like. The affair of the boat- 
hook, you know, makes you a privileged person.” 

“ Eeally, from what you said, I shouldn’t have thought 
so.” 

“ W ell, go on. I want your opinion — about the hands.” 

“ I — I’m really afraid I haven’t any.” 

“ Eeally ! Your cousin Harry would have had.” 

“ Harry ? Oh, yes. I’ve no doubt he would.” 

“Shall I tell you what he would have done? He 
would have taken one of my hands, or perhaps both of 
them, affected to examine them judicially, and then, if 
I’d let him, he would certainly — would certainly ” 

She broke off, laughing, daring a good deal, yet not 
quite daring to say the words which were on the tip of 
her tongue. 


MY CHILD AND L 


159 


“ Yes, I know,” said Deane, nodding, becoming purple 
in the face, which was the only form of blushing his 
sun-red complexion allowed, and looking at the little 
piquant face with an expression from which the shyness 
was rapidly disappearing. “ Harry can do a thousand 
things for which I, if I were to attempt them, should 
get turned out of people’s houses.” 

“ Why, yes, that’s true. Doesn’t that ever seem 
hard ?” 

“ Sometimes. For instance ” 

He checked himself abruptly, and asked what about 
the speech of the orchid-house. 

“ All in good time,” said Meg, taking two little steps 
forward in a leisurely manner. “ You were saying, ‘ For 
instance ’ ?” 

Deane hesitated. 

“ Ye-es?” said she, insisting. 

“ Well, then, you were much kinder to him yesterday, 
after the accident, than you were to me,” said Deane, 
hastily. Of course,” the poor fellow hurried on, in 
confusion, “ I don’t mean to say that there was any need 
for you to be specially kind ; but, well, you were specially 
unkind; now, weren’t you?” 

Meg locked the little brown hands, upon which she 
could get no judgment passed, behind her, and stood in 
a judicial attitude. 

“ I consider I was perfectly justified. Your cousin, 
poor boy, had just committed a blunder ; everybody was 
blaming him, and he was to be commiserated. You, on 
the other hand, had just been lauded up to the skies for 
an exploit, and consequently required — required ” 

She hesitated again, laughing, and not looking up. 
Deane found the missing word. 

‘‘ Taking down a peg,” he suggested, gently. 

He bent his head to try to see her face, encouraged 
by the fact that she held it down, laughing all the time 
softly to herself. 

“Something like that, perhaps. I didn’t want your 
character to suffer, you see, from gross doses of flattery 
injudiciously administered.” 

“ I suppose I must consider that thoughtfulness as due 
to regard for the human character in the abstract, rather 
than for the creature under consideration in particular.” 


160 


MY CHILD AND L 


At this Meg looked up, with large, grey-brown eyes, in 
which there was a gleam of something that was not grey. 

“ Would you oblige me by putting that into words of 
one syllable ?” she asked, solemnly. 

His head was still bent, so that her face, upturned 
suddenly, was very near to his. 

“ One syllable only ?” said he, his voice shaking in an 
odd manner over the simple question. 

“ Yes, please.” 

Suddenly her eyes went down again, and the corners 
of her mouth curled up. 

“ 1 could if I liked,” said he, in a whisper. 

“ Go on, then.” 

“ You — are — a — sad — flirt !” 

“ Oh ?” with a little interrogative inflection. “ I hadn’t 
an idea you meant that by all those long words. That’s 
the worst of the frivolous education they give us women, 
you see. We have to guess at what a man means so I” 

Deane said nothing to this, but drew back a little. 
They had stopped, on the way to the orchid-house, in 
front of a stone fountain, and Meg, who had been watch- 
ing the goldfish, suddenly went down on her knees and 
began to dabble in the water, pretending to try to catch 
the little creatures as they darted about under her 
fingers. 

“ I suppose, then,” she said, after a silence, “ that you 
disapprove of me ?” 

“ What makes you think so ?” 

“Well, I am sure you are the sort of person who 
would disapprove of flirts. You are so extremely — 
sedate — and — and ” 

“ Solemnly stupid ?” 

“ Oh, no, no, of course not. But — well, sedate and — 
well-conducted.” 

“ And you like ill-conducted people better ?” 

“ I don't say that. Though that is what you would 
expect of a flirt, isn’t it ?” 

“ You are trying to make me say something rude.” 

“Well, I should look upon it as a sort of triumph if I 
did.” 

“ A poor sort of triumph, surely.” 

“Well, what sort of triumphs do you expect an ill- 
conducted flirt to delight in ?” 


MY CHILD AND L 


161 


“ you are putting into my mouth words which I 
never used, never thought of using.” 

“ You used them by implication. Now, pray define 
what you mean by a fiirt.” 

I would rather not. You would twist my words into 
something I did not mean.” 

“ I see. Having once written me down a fiirt, you 
will not even give me credit for ordinary honesty. I 
am condemned unheard for a crime I don’t even under- 
stand.” 

“ Well, then, the ‘ crime,’ as you call it, is that of mak- 
ing yourself too attractive to sedate and well-conducted 
persons.” 

Meg glanced up at him with the delightfully roguish 
look of a mischievous child. 

“Now, I should have thought,” said she, demurely, 
“ that was something to be grateful to me for.” 

Deane shook his head very decidedly. 

“ Nothing of the sort,” said he, looking down at her 
with judicial gravity. “ Don’t you know that one of the 
faults of us ‘ sedate and well-conducted persons’ is that 
our slow brains take an impression so slowly that, when 
once taken, there is great danger of its being perma- 
nent ?” 

Meg looked down into the water again. Then she 
shook her head slowly. 

“ I don’t think,” she said, in a rather plaintive little 
voice, “ that there is much danger of any impression I 
make being permanent with anybody ! Your cousin, for 
instance ” 

Over Deane’s face, which had been wearing a quite 
unwonted expression of vivid interest and animation, 
there came suddenly a great change. He threw at the 
girl one rapid glance of reproach, which made her lower 
her eyes, before answering, in a very constrained tone, 
“ He will take his permanent impression some day, I 
suppose, like the rest of us.” 

Meg looked up again rather wickedly. 

“ Has nothing led you to believe, then,” she asked, 
demurely, “ that he has taken it already ?” 

“ If so. Miss Keen, no doubt you will hear of it sooner 
than T,” answered Deane, in a tone which betrayed the 
fact that be was suffering acutely. 

I 14 * 


162 


MY CHILD AND L 


Meg rose quickly to her feet, almost in dismay. For 
a moment she hesitated to speak, and in that moment 
she lost the opportunity of doing so, for I came up, hav- 
ing heard the last few words, and put my own construc- 
tion upon them. 

“ Didn’t you hear the dinner-gong ?” asked I, rather 
sharply, for I was angry with Meg for. her unkindness to 
a man who had certainly saved her life, and whom I sus- 
pected of being as much in love with her as his more 
fortunate cousin was. 

“ 1^0,” said the girl, very soberly. I didn’t hear it, 
mamma.” 

“ I thought you were perhaps in the houses on the 
other side of the shrubbery,” said I, “ so I offered to 
come and find you myself.” 

Thank you,” said she. 

And she added not a word more to the conversation 
until we all three reached the house. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Xow, although Deane’s attractions seemed so immeas- 
urably inferior in my eyes to Harry’s that I almost de- 
spised him as much as I pitied him for daring to cast his 
eyes on any girl whom my son honoured with his liking, 
yet I felt bound to do my best to make up for Meg’s un- 
kindness. So I talked chiefiy to him at dinner-time, 
which was by no means an easy task, as his tete-a-tete 
with Meg had made him shyer and more diffident than 
ever. 

Afterwards, in the drawing-room, I took the girl to 
task for her conduct. 

I told her that my particular reason for annoyance at 
her treatment of Deane was that her father had found a 
fresh cause of dislike to Harry Carey, and that his re- 
sentment would probably extend from the one cousin to 
the other, so that she would not have an opportunity^ of 
making amends to Deane for the unkind manner in 
which he was treated. As I expected, she was very 
much interested, and was not satisfied until she had 


MY CHILD AND L 


163 


drawn from mo some details of the scene at the Star 
and Garter that afternoon. She heard all I had to say 
with very little comment, and I must own that 1 thanked 
her in my heart for showing very little indignation 
against Harry. 

She was just asking me whether I was really sure that 
the cousins would be banished forever from The Limes, 
when the gentlemen came into the drawing-room. 

As Meg turned her attention at once, with her usual 
perversity, to one of her father’s old friends, I myself 
entered into conversation with Deane, who looked by no 
means happy. I felt sure that he was a good fellow, and 
fond of his more spirited cousin ; and I thought I could 
not do better than take him into my confidence a little. 
But how far that tentative little step was to take me I 
did not know. 

We were on the broad walk which stretched between 
the house and the lawn, when I, after leading the talk to 
the subject of Harry, began to deplore that young man’s 
reprehensible extravagance and his choice of companions. 
Deane looked at me quickly, as if wondering how I knew. 
I told him what I had seen that afternoon. Then, think- 
ing that I had betrayed an astonishingly keen interest 
in the young fellow, and that Deane would wonder why 
my feelings were so strong on the subject, I added, in a 
tone of affected carelessness, — 

“ I take an extraordinary interest in the fact that you 
two lads, brought up together, amid the same influences, 
in the same atmosphere, should have turned out so widely 
different in tastes, habits, — everything.” 

“ It’s not quite so strange as it seems,” said Deane. 

You see there was a difference of temperament to begin 
with ; and then, as a matter of fact, the atmosphere has 
not been the same for both. He, being more attractive 
than I, was spoilt, and I was not. He always had more 
pocket-money than I, more indulgence, more of my aunt’s 
affection. She has paid his debts over and over again, 
while I was always expected to keep rigidly within my 
allowance. It is poor Harry, however, who has suffered 
by the distinction, in the long run.” 

I was touched by the generosity of this view, taken 
of the spoilt one by the one who was not spoilt. My 
feeling was so strong, indeed, that it caused the tears to 


164 


MY CHILD AND L 


rush suddenly to mj eyes. This evidently moved him 
very strongly. 

“ Don't be so unhappy about it, Mrs. Keen,” he said, 
earnestly. “ Eemember he is very young. And he has 
not had about him, always, the influence which would 
have done him the most good.” 

Although he said this hurriedly, I looked up, rather 
startled by the words. Deane had grown crimson, as he 
so easily did, and was in some confusion. 

“Your secret is quite safe with me, Mrs. Keen,” said 
he, in a low voice. “ But it may be convenient for you 
to know that I know it.” 

“ Harry told you !” cried I, in a whisper. 

“No, he doesn’t know that I do know it.” 

“ Then who did tell you? You cannot have guessed !” 

Deane smiled, rather sadly, I thought. 

“ I did guess, though,” he said. “ Or, rather, you ‘gave 
yourself away,’ on the day of the picnic, by the way you 
looked at him. There was an expression in your eyes 
which made me wonder that everybody there didn’t 
guess that you were looking at your own son.” 

I was so much agitated by Deane’s words that I was 
unable to answer him, unable even to stop the tears 
which would flow. He was miserable at having caused 
me so much distress. 

“ Why, you treat me so prettily, said I, as I at length 
dried my eyes, “ that you make me wish that I had had 
two sons, and that you were one of them.” 

“ I wish to Heaven I were,” said Deane, with unex- 
pected warmth. 

“You never knew your own mother?” 

“She died at the lime of my birth.” 

This was almost all the conversation we had together, 
but our tete d-tete ended with a pleasant feeling of con- 
fidence established between us. Here, thought I, is a 
good friend to my boy. Seeing that Meg took no further 
notice of Deane, I even whispered to her, when I got 
an opportunity, that she could be civil to him if only for 
the reason that he was such a devoted friend of Harry’s. 
But this argument was of no more avail than the rest ; 
and he got from the young girl no further word but a 
cold “ Good-night,” when the time came for the guests 
to leave for the last train. 


MY CHILD AND I. 


165 


I was relieved, but rather puzzled, by the fact that 
my husband said nothing further to me that evening 
about either of the Careys. But the next morning I 
received sufficient proof that this reticence was not the 
result of forgetfulness. 

Breakfast was scarcely over when a telegram was 
brought to me. The message it contained was this : 

“ Harry very ill indeed. Come if you can. 

Deane.” 

The shock, coming as it did when I had been har- 
bouring angry feelings against my boy, was too great 
for my self command. 1 uttered a low cry, which at- 
tracted the attention of my husband. He turned back 
as he was leaving the room. 

“What’s the matter?” asked he, shortly, and, as I 
thought, with suspicion. 

“ Nothing, at least nothing that you would think 
much of,” I answered, trying to speak cheerfully. And, 
searching in my mind for an excuse, I added, “ A friend 
of mine, at least a relation, is ill ; my aunt wants me to 
go up.” 

He turned back into the room without looking up, 
still apparently intent on his letters. But when he got 
near me he made a sudden snatch at my hand, seized 
the telegram, and mastered its contents in silence. I 
made no protest : it was too late. 

“ So,” said he, very quietly, when he had read the 
message and returned me the bit of pinky -brown paper, 
“ you have a friend, at least a relation, who is ill and 
who wants to see you, and whom your aunt wants you 
to see. It’s very unfortunate j but you can’t go.” 

“ I — I must I” 

I sank into a chair. My husband looked at me sternly 
and yet not aliogether unkindly. He made a sign to 
Burgess with his head that he might take himself off, 
and, turning to Meg, he said, — 

“ Go and get your mother a glass of water.” 

Meg ran to the sideboard. 

“ I’ll do that,” he said, abruptly, taking the tumbler 
from her hands ; “ go and get her smelling-bottle. And 
you needn’t hurry,” he added, significantly. 

Meg, looking rather frightened, glanced at me, and 


166 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


disappeared. Mr. Keen came over to me with a glass 
of water. 

Drink this,’^ said he. 

I put my lips to it obediently, but I could not drink. 
I tried to hold the tumbler, but my hand shook so much 
that it was impossible for me to do so. I pushed it away, 
and stood up. 

‘‘William,” I exclaimed, in a half-stifled voice, “you 
must let me go. I must and will go. It is a relation of 
mine who is ill. It is my son.” 

To my surprise, my husband received this intelligence 
in silence. Then I, looking at him askance and with 
fear, perceived that he must have been shrewd enough 
to suspect this before. 

“ And pray, how long have you known of the exist- 
ence of your son ? And who told you of it ?” he pres- 
ently asked, in an exceedingly dry tone. 

There was nothing to do now but to make a clean 
breast of it. 

“ Lady Stephana took away my son : Lady Stephana 
has brought up this young fellow,” I answered, tremu- 
lously. 

“ Well, for the matter of that, she’s brought up a 
dozen waifs and strays,” answered my husband, in a 
rather contemptuous tone. “ Your son, if he’s alive at 
all, might just as well be one of the young fellows she 
has brought up and trained as footmen.” 

“ Ko, William, no,” I answered, earnestly. “ I have two 
proofs that Harry Carey is my son. His age is the one; 
but the other is much, much stronger, — he is exactly like 
his father.” 

“ Morally or physically ?” 

I did not answer, and Mr. Keen laughed. 

“And do you reallj^ think it worth while, considering 
what you know of this young man, to lay claim to the 
relationship ?” 

“ I have done so. He knows,” I faltered. 

“ I’ll be sworn he does,” said Mr. Keen, grimly. “ I’ll 
be bound he’d have left his ma in blissful ignorance of 
the relationship if she hadn’t been well enough oif to 
be worth plundering. Where’s your ring?” he asked, 
abruptly, with a sudden change of tone which threw me 
off my guard. 


MY CHILD AND L 


167 


“My ring! Which ring?” I asked, weakly. 

He stamped his foot impatiently ; and I saw that, if 
he had kept his temper so far, the outbreak was now 
getting near. 

“ Yes, yes, you know which one. The one I gave you 
on your last birthday but one. The one you used to 
wear on this finger.” 

And he seized, with some roughness, the third finger 
of my right hand, on which, since the previous day, I 
had been wearing a comparatively insignificant diamond 
half-hoop in place of the ring I had given my son. 

For answer I burst into tears. My husband, usually 
not insensible to such a demonstration, seemed only ex- 
cited to fresh anger by my grief. 

“ Yes, yes, I know, I know what’s become of it. And 
of all the money you’ve been spending lately I” cried he, 
savagely. “ content with thieving himself, he must 
needs turn you into a thief also.” 

“ William, William!” 

“William, William! It’s true; you know it’s true. 
You’re welcome to anything I have for yourself, as you 
know. But to get money from me for a rascal who 
ought to be in gaol is theft, and, what’s more, it’s the 
most arrant folly. Do you suppose, if I hadn’t found 
this out, that he’d have stopped until he’d drained you 
dry? Do you imagine that, having got from you one 
piece of jewelry, he’d have been content till he’d got the 
lot ? By the bye, is that all you’ve been fool enough to 
give him ?” 

“ Yes, yes, it is indeed.” 

“Unluckily, I can’t take your word for it. I’m going 
to stay at home to-day,” — I started involuntarily, — “and 
we’ll just amuse ourselves, you and I, by going over the 
contents of your jewel-cases.” 

I was stung to the quick, as well as racked with anxi- 
ety on my son’s account, and my misery and despair 
gave me courage enough to oppose my will to my hus- 
band’s, a thing which I had never before had the temerity 
to attempt. Starting up, I ran across the room to the 
door. 

“Where are you going?” asked he, in an ominous 
voice. 

“ 1 am going up to town. I must.” 


168 


MY CHILD AND I. 


My husband, who had been standing by my side, came 
rapidly, but without my own hysterical haste, to within 
a few feet of me. He looked hard and angry, but, in- 
stead of pouring upon me, as I had expected, a torrent 
of words, he only laughed shortly. 

“ You think you can prevent me, of course,” said I, 
with an assumption of boldness which the tremor in my 
voice belied. 

Even at a crisis of despair such as I had now reached, 
the habits of fifteen years are not lightly broken : and 
in all the fifteen years of our married life I had never 
defied him, never done anything but yield submissively 
to him before. 

“ Oh, no, I don’t,” he answered, quietly, with a repeti- 
tion of the ugly little hard laugh. “ Oh, no, I don’t. I 
am not such a fool as to think I can make a foolish 
woman give up any folly she has set her heart upon.” 

“ Then — then,” said 1, nervously faltering, ‘‘ then you 
— you will let me go ?” 

“ I will not move a finger to prevent your going,” re- 
plied my husband, with an appearance which did not 
avail to hide from me the fact that he was much moved. 
“ But — and now mind this — I don’t say one thing and 
mean another, as you have good reason to know, my 
girl ; and if you make up your mind to go up to town 
to see this d — d young rascal of a son, as you call him, 
and as he may be, for anything I know, I won’t have you 
back in this house again, and I won’t have anything 
more to do with you.” 

In any man but my husband I should have looked 
upon these as mere words, a threat never intended to be 
acted upon. But I knew him well enough, as he said, to 
be instantly sure that, if I did not yield, he would not. I 
leaned against the door, trembling. 

“William, William, you don’t mean that; you can’t ! 
Think what it is for a mother to know that her boy is ill, 
and asking for her !” 

“ 1 have thought, and I have decided that it’s all d — d 
nonsense,” said he, sharply. “ If he were a decent chap, 
like his cousin even, I should forgive the feeling, under- 
stand it ; or if, being what he is, you had seen him grow 
up, had had him with you since he was a babj^. But to 
make all this bother over a man whom you only suppose 


MY CHILD AND L 


169 


to be your son, while, on the other hand, you know him 
to be an arrant scoundrel, is the most unmitigated 
idiotcy, and I shouldn’t be doing my duty as your hus- 
band and protector if 1 didn’t do my best to restrain you 
in your folly/^ 

“ William, I have never resisted your wishes before 
” I began, entreatingly. 

He interrupted me. 

“ And you’re not going to begin now, unless you think 
the partnership has lasted long enough. So, now, which 
is it to be ?” And he crossed the room and put his hand 
upon the bell. “ Do you want the carriage, to take you 
to the station, or not ?” 

For answer I shook my head, as I threw myself, 
broken-hearted, upon the sofa. 

He had conquered. But I saw in the expression of 
his face, as he glanced at me with returning kindliness, 
that he knew there was more trouble in store for us both 
on this unhappy subject. 


CHAPTEE XXIII. 

With a kiss of forgiveness, to which I was too heart- 
broken to respond, my husband left me. I think he was 
sorry for me ; I think he would have been glad if this 
son, for whom I had searched the world all these years, 
had turned out a comfort to me when I at last found 
him. For, although he was jealous, he was sincerely fond 
of me ; and 1 do not believe that he took any small-minded 
pleasure in the fact that the hope of my life had turned 
to its despair. 

Perhaps despair is too strong a word, for I still hugged 
the thought that, even if a mother’s influence were of no 
avail with him, marriage might accomplish the needed 
reform. And surely Meg, self-willed, determined little 
Meg, if she had made up her mind to marry him, would 
carry her point, whatever her father might say. On the 
other hand, I could not help owning to myself that 
marriage with Harry would be a dangerous experiment. 
I even felt that it would be my duty to warn the girl 
H 15 


170 


MV CHILD AND 1. 


against the peril of the very step which in my heart I 
hoped she would take. 

Marriage with a man known as a ne’er-do-weel had 
not brought me so much happiness that I could consci- 
entiously advise another woman to incur the same risks. 
If only I could go and see my boy, I might, now that he 
was lying ill, be able to do more with him than when 
he was in the full enjoyment of his health and high 
spirits. 

I got up from the sofa, and, running up-stairs, shut 
myself into my own boudoir. From the windows of this 
room I could see my husband playing tennis with Bur- 
gess. He had kept his word, then, and meant to spend 
the day at home, keeping a watch upon me. As I stood 
at the window, I perceived that his quick eyes had caught 
sight of me, though he appeared to take no notice. It 
made me feel that I was a prisoner in the house where 
I was supposed to be mistress. I withdrew from the 
window, and walked up and down the room, torn be- 
tween resentment, longing to see my son, and dread of 
the consequences of disobeying my husband. 

In spite of this dread, my desire to be by Harry’s bed- 
side grew so strong, as I paced up and down like a caged 
animal, that I almost think I should have risked every- 
thing and left the house, if I had not suddenly been 
startled by a soft tap at the door. 

‘‘Come in,” said I. And Meg entered, dressed for 
going out. 

“ I’ve come to say good-bye, mamma,” she said, very 
softly, as she drew on her gloves. “I’m going up to 
town to see Aunt Hi. I’ve just asked papa if I might.” 

“ But,” said I, wonderingly, “ what is taking you up 
in such a hurry ? Don’t you know that Sir Eoger Ber- 
nard is coming over this afternoon with his daughters ?” 

“ Yes, mamma,” answered Meg, as demurely as ever, 
still intent upon her gloves, “but I thought that j^ou 
could entertain them without me for once. I thought,” 
she went on, with a curious little curve about her mouth, 
“ that — that perhaps I could get Aunt Hi to call with me 
in Piccadilly and find out how Mr. Carey is.” 

My relief and delight were so great that I could 
hardly restrain myself from throwing my arms round 
the girl’s neck. I forgot my anxiety lest she should be 


MT CHILD AND L 


171 


in love with a ne’er-do-weel ; I even forgot to inquire 
how it was that she had learnt that my friend who was 
ill was no other than Harry Carey. I only remembered 
that my boy had found another friend, another advocate, 
and that, thanks to her, my worst anxieties as to his 
condition would soon be relieved by my learning the 
exact truth as to how he was. 

When she had gone, I remembered one thing that I 
must do ; and I went meekly down into the grounds 
and asked my husband if I might go into the town and 
send off a telegram. He frowned, and, after weighing 
his tennis racquet thoughtfully in his hands for a minute 
or two, said, shortly, — 

‘‘ Oh, yes, I suppose so ; but don’t go beyond the six- 
pence ; he isn’t worth it.” 

I was furious, especially as Burgess, who was throw- 
ing his racquet up in the air and catching it again to fill 
up the time, looked very much amused at the answer I 
got. I retreated without a word ; but my husband, who 
was, I think, rather touched by the abject condition to 
which his spoilt wife was reduced, sauntered after me 
to say that 1 must cheer up, for the chances were ten to 
one there was very little the matter with my friend. 

I felt that this would be consolation was a fresh out- 
rage, and I hurried to the telegraph-office and despatched 
the following message : 

“ Cannot come. Am miserable with anxiety till I 
know how you are. Get Deane to wire again.” 

Then I went back to The Limes, and waited with 
what patience I could for Meg’s return. 

She did not come back until late in the afternoon ; and, 
as in the mean time I had received no other telegram, I 
was almost ill with my fears and forebodings before I 
saw her again. 

It must have been nearly six o’clock when I was 
startled by hearing a burst of laughter from the garden, 
in which I distinguished Meg’s voice as well as my hus- 
band’s. The Bernards had only been gone about ten 
minutes, and I had taken the opportunity to go up-stairs 
to bathe my aching head with eau de Cologne and 
water. I looked out of the window, and saw my hus- 


172 


MY CHILD AND L 


band still in the midst of a fit of uncoxitrollable laughter ; 
while Meg, with her eyes full of mischief, was running 
away from him towards the house. The sight filled me 
with suspicion. Surely, considering what the real reason 
of her journey to town had been, it would have been 
only natural for Meg to seek me out at once on her re- 
turn. For although she had no suspicion of the rela- 
tionship between Harry and myself, yet I had made no 
secret of my liking for the lad, nor of the fact that I 
was entirely in sympathy with hers. Had the girl 
entered into a conspiracy with her father against me ? 
Yet how could I reconcile such a supposition with her 
open liking for Harry ? 

I was debating these questions with myself when 
Meg’s voice called out, ‘‘ May 1 come in, mamma ?” 

Her face, when she entered, had not yet recovered its 
gravity. I looked at her rather resentfully. 

“ What is the great joke you were enjoying with 
your father on the lawn just now?” 

Meg broke again into laughter. 

‘^Oh, mamma, it is a joke, really! Though I’m not 
quite sure how you’ll take it.” 

And she looked at me again with eyes full of mis- 
chief 

Well, never mind the joke now. Tell me about 
your journey. You got your Aunt Di to go with you 
to Piccadilly ?” 

Yes, oh, yes.” 

And Meg’s mouth began to expand again. 

And you made inquiries about poor Harry Carey ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you saw his cousin ?” 

No, he had left Harry and gone out.” 

He might have stayed with him while he was ill I” 

‘‘Well, mamma, so he did. But — but we made our 
dutiful’ inquiries, and the housekeeper told us that Mr. 
Harry Carey had been taken ill very suddenly, so that 
his cousin didn’t like to leave him this morning. And 
that Mr. Deane wanted to send for a doctor, but that 
the patient wouldn’t let him, but asked him to send off 
a telegram instead. Well, the telegram was sent; and 
in the mean time Harry Carey got so much worse that 
his cousin did sent for the doctor without telling him 


MV CHILD AND 1. 


173 


about it. And then a telegram came for the invalid ; 
and the housekeeper said that when he read it he used 
the most shocking language, turned her out of the room, 
and got up. And when the doctor arrived, Harry Carey 
slipped past him in the passage, and got into a hansom 
just as the doctor reached his ‘ sick-room.’ That’s the 
joke, mamma, that I was laughing at in the garden.” 

And Meg burst into another peal of amusement. 

I certainly did not share her enjoyment. Saying, 
rather curtly, that she had much better not have men- 
tioned the matter to her father at all, and that Harry 
Carey’s illness might turn out to be no laughing matter 
to him, I told her she had better go and dress for din- 
ner. 

On the following morning I knew, by the frown on 
my husband’s face as he brought in the letters, that 
there was one from Harry to me among them. I was 
not disappointed ; but even my devotion to my boy was 
somewhat shocked on finding that he wrote saying he 
had been ill in bed ever since the preceding morning, 
and that he had grown worse on hearing that I could 
not or would not come to see him. He went on to say 
that he had been longing for an opportunity to put him- 
self right in my eyes after the unlucky meeting at the 
Star and Garter ; and he proceeded to explain that he 
had been invited down on a friend’s drag, and that, 
although the company was not much to his taste, he 
had accepted the invitation because it would take him 
into my neighbourhood, in the hope that he might be 
able to slip away from the rest and give himself the 
poor pleasure of going to look at the outside of the 
house that contained his darling mother, since he was 
not permitted to see the inside. 

Now, there are limits even to a loving mother’s pa- 
tience and credulity, and Harry had reached them. I 
was bitterly grieved, bitterly wounded ; but, instead of 
writing him a reproachful letter, upbraiding him for his 
duplicity and giving him an opening for another eloquent 
epistle, I just left unanswered his long tissue of false- 
hoods, and almost brought myself to the point of taking 
my husband’s advice and resolving not to have anything 
more to do with him. 

I think my husband kept a strict watch upon my 
15 * 


174 


MY CHILD AND L 


actions for the next week or two ; . but, if so, he must 
have been perfectly satisfied with my behaviour. Not 
only did I refrain from making any attempt to go up to 
town by myself, but I even abstained, during that space 
of time, from answering a single one of the letters with 
which Harry continued to deluge me. I suffered, how- 
ever, very severely all the time. No one can live as I 
had done for years upon a hope, and then, when that 
hope is fulfilled, lose all interest in the object of it. For 
years I had longed to see my son, and had never troubled 
myself to ask what sort of man I should find him. I 
had even not considered the probability that he would 
inherit some of the least desirable characteristics of his 
father. Now it seemed to me very natural that he should 
do so, and I felt that I Could only pity him for the dispo- 
sition that was born in him. It may be easily imagined, 
therefore, that, when I at last got a letter saying that my 
hardness towards him had broken his heart, and that he 
had made up his mind to emigrate to Florida, and so rid 
his mother of the burden of a child who was a disgrace 
to her, my resolution broke down, and I told myself that 
I was a hard and wicked woman. 

The distress I suffered was so acute that, even before 
I had made up my mind as to whether I should consult 
my husband about this letter or not, he had perceived 
that there was something the matter with me, and 
guessed that it was in consequence of the letter I had 
received that morning. He said nothing to me, however, 
but called Meg to him, and walked up and down the 
shadiest of the garden walks in earnest conversation 
with her. Presently I heard him tell her she was a 
splendid girl, and enjoin her to “ Keep a sharp lookout.’’ 
Then he gave her a kiss, and went round to the front, 
where the phaeton was waiting to take him to the sta- 
tion. What these words referred to, and the events 
which followed, I did not learn until long afterwards. 

Without my knowledge, the servants and the lodge- 
keepers had been warned that Mr. Harry Carey, who 
was carefully described to them, was on no account to 
be admitted within the grounds ; while one of the gar- 
deners had been deputed to keep watch on the river 
front, so that no descent might be made from that quar- 
ter. My husband hoped by these means to prevent a 


MY CHILD AND L 


175 


meeting between myself and Harry, who put the ser- 
vants’ vigilance to the test on three or four occasions 
before the day on which I received the above letter. 

On the afternoon of that day Meg, instead of going 
for a drive with me, as I wished her to do, chose to re- 
main in the garden. She wandered about the grounds, 
keeping a strict watch upon the boundaries, for some 
time, until at last her patience was rewarded by the sight 
of a young man getting over the high wall into the 
shrubbery. 

Skimming rapidly over the ground in the direction of 
the intruder, Meg was in time to intercept Harry Carey 
as he made his way stealthily through the trees in the 
direction of the house. 

“ Oho, Mr. Carey, this is very like a burglarious en- 
trance, isn’t it ?” she called out, as she ran up. 

Without showing any signs of confusion, Harry rushed 
up to her and seized her hand. 

“ Miss Keen, Meg,” he cried at once, with great fervour, 
“ all’s fair in love or war. I love you ; your father knows 
it, and won’t let me see you. There was nothing for it 
but to recall my old feats at orchard-breaking and get in 
to see you somehow.” 

“ What, you’ve come to see me ?” asked Meg, incredu- 
lously. 

“ Who else in the world should I wish to see ?” 

“Why,” said Meg, stolidly, “by what I’ve heard, it 
might be any other of a dozen ladies.” 

“ I don’t know where you’ve heard any such thing of 
me !” cried Harry, with indignation. “ Or, rather, it is 
easy to see that this is your father’s work.” 

“ He hasn’t the highest opinion in the world of you, 
certainly,” said she. “And mamma, who used always 
to take your part, now seems to think just as badly of 
you as he does. Pray, what have you been doing to 
bring this about ?” 

“ It’s nothing in the world but because I love you, and 
because they think I am not rich enough or not good 
enough for you,” said Harry, fervently. 

Meg, apparently unmoved by his ardour, looked at him 
imperturbably. 

“Well, and are you?” she said. 

“ Well,” said Harry, for the moment taken aback, “I 


176 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


had hoped — ^you have been very kind — ^}'0u called to ask 
after me when I was ill ” 

“ And found you had got well very suddenly,” said 
Meg, laughing. 

Harry blushed at last. 

“ I went out at the risk of my life,” said he. ‘‘ But of 
course you’re welcome to think what you like. I see I 
am intruding. They have been at work destroying the 
kindly feeling I believe you once had for me ” 

“ You destroyed it yourself,” retorted Meg, hotly. “ I 
liked you very much, I thought you awfully nice, and 
amusing, and bright, until that day when you let me fall 
into the water, and didn’t trouble yourself any further 
about me, any more than if I’d been a water-rat. I don’t 
say that my life is a very valuable one, but it’s the con- 
ventional thing to treat a j’oung woman of my age as if 
she was a very precious object, and — well, I prefer the 
conventional treatment. And papa agrees with me, and 
— so does mamma .'” 

Harry listened to this very quietly. When she had 
finished he said, in the same unruffled manner, — 

“ Your own opinion I am bound to take as you give it 
me. Miss Keen ; your father’s I am willing to take on 
trust. But Mrs. Keen’s I should prefer to hear from her 
own lips ; and, if you’ll allow me, I will go to the house 
and hear it now.” 

“ Mamma is out,” cried Meg. And, in any case, I am 
sorry to have to inform you, Mr. Carey, she would not 
be at home to you.” 

“ That, also, I should prefer to hear from her own lips,” 
answered Harry, speaking as coolly as ever, although 
his face had grown a little paler. “ Mrs. Keen has been 
kind enough to show me the greatest friendship and 
good feeling possible, for she’s not one of those women 
who value a man for what he has rather than for what 
he is.” 

“I’m one of those women!” retorted Meg, with her 
head in the air. “ I like a man who has good sense, and 
good taste, and modesty.” 

“Modesty! You ought to prefer my cousin to me, 
then !” answered Harry, lightly, with a sneer. 

“ So I do !” replied Meg, promptly, with crimson 
cheeks. 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


177 


Harry looked thoroughly astonished. Then, raising 
his eyebrows, he said, “ Surely, then, for his sake, since 
you think so highly of him, and since he has the bad 
taste to think highly of you, you might treat me better!” 

Meg suddenly became very serious. 

“ Mr. Carey,” she said, “ you don’t know how well I 
am treating you. I will tell you frankly that my father, 
rightly or wrongly, has got it into his head that you are 
taking advantage of mamma’s good nature and gen- 
erosity. He heard that you came down here several 
times to try to see her, whether she liked it or not, and 
he made up his mind to lie in wait for your coming, and 
give you a very warm reception. When I heard that, 1 
begged him not to do so, but said that I would look out 
for you myself, and that I was sure I could make you 
listen to reason.” 

“ Awfully good of you, I’m sure !” said Harry, whose 
self-possession it was difficult to disturb. Perhaps you 
don’t know that the relationship between Mrs. Keen 
and me is that of mother and son.” 

But apparently this claim was not new to Meg, who 
answered, quietly, — 

“ I’ve heard that you say so, Mr. Carey ; but papa 
says the proofs of it seem to him very slender. And he 
says that in any case she has done enough for you, and 
that he must prevent the possibility of her being imposed 
upon.” 

At this Harry remained silent for some minutes, and, 
when he spoke again, it was with the voice of a person 
who is deeply hurt and mortified. 

“I’m much obliged to you. Miss Keen,” he said, at 
last, “ for the care you have taken to consider my feel- 
ings. I am sure my cousin will feel quite as grateful as 
I do. You can assure Mr. Keen that I shall not trouble 
him again, as I’m not in the habit of intruding where 
I’m not wanted. And as for my mother, I love her too 
much to allow dissensions to arise in her family on my 
account.” 

They had by this time, walking together openly along 
one of the paths, reached the lodge gates. Harry raised 
his hat formally to Meg, and she returned a salutation 
equally stiff. As he passed out into the road, he met me 
returning from my drive. On my way back I had called 
m 


178 


MY CHILD AND /. 


at the station and waited for my husband, who was now 
sitting by my side. Harry, however, who was on my 
side of the carriage, did not see that I was not alone, 
and rushed up to me. 

My husband gave me one look, one warning touch. 
With the tears welling up to my eyes, I turned my head 
away, though I felt that my heart was breaking. 


CHAPTEE XXIV. 

During the two weeks which followed this inauspi- 
cious visit of Harry’s, we heard nothing more of him. 
There were no more piteous and appealing letters for 
me, no more surreptitious visits on the part of my 
unhappy son. I was utterly miserable, reproaching my- 
self for my hardness, and telling myself that Harry had 
been too deeply offended and hurt by the treatment he 
had received ever to let me hear from him again. My 
husband, on the other hand, openly expressed his joyful 
conviction that “the young scamp was choked off at 
last while Meg, although reticent as to her opinions, 
was evidently no longer on my side. 

It was our habit — as, indeed, it had to be the habit of 
most of our neighbours, the houses being so far apart and 
standing for the most part in such well-wooded grounds 
— to exercise some vigilance against intruders. Bob- 
beries, either of a grave or trifling sort, were not un- 
common ; as it was an easy thing for a man to hide 
among the trees, watch his opportunity, and enter the 
house by one of the inviting French windows; after 
clearing the room he happened to enter of anything 
portable he liked the look of, he could sneak out again 
and await an opportunity of getting clear away. In 
this way we, as well as our neighbours, had been made 
the victims of several small thefts since we had lived at 
The Limes. 

When, therefore, the footman told us at dinner one 
evening that a suspicious-looking man had been seen 
about the grounds, that he had been followed, but had 
escaped, we were not very much surprised, and only 


MY CHILD AND L 


179 


gave orders that the drawing-room windows should be 
fastened at once and the back entrances kept locked. 

My husband, indeed, took the trouble to interview the 
gardener who had seen the man ; and, when I heard him 
ask whether the supposed thief was respectably dressed 
and whether he was young or old, my heart beat high, 
for I knew what the suspicion was in his mind. 

The man’s answers, however, went far to dispel my 
fears. As far as the gardener could judge, the intruder 
was just a common tramp. 

By the time we went to bed, we had all forgotten the 
momentary scare. 

My husband and I occupied a large room which looked 
upon the lawn and the river. He had a bed in one 
corner, far from the light and hung with curtains ; while 
mine was at the other end of the apartment, in a light 
corner between two windows. 

As usual with mo now, 1 was too unhappy to fall 
asleep immediately. While I was lying thinking of my 
son and wondering what was to become of him, 1 became 
aware of certain sounds which were not like the ordinary 
night-noises one always hears during a wakeful night. 
At first, of course, I thought they must be the result of 
fancy only ; but presently, as they continued and grew 
more suspicious in character, the mysterious tramp who 
had been seen about came into my mind, and I sat up in 
bed to listen. The noises were continuous, though always 
slight, and they proceeded, as far as I could judge, from 
the room underneath, which was the dining-room. 

My husband was asleep. I crossed the room and woke 
him. 

“ William,” said I, “ there’s a burglar in the house. He’s 
in the dining-room. Listen. I’m sure of it !” 

The sounds I had heard went on again. My husband 
got up, put on his dressing-gown, and put out his hands 
for the revolver he always kept loaded in a little cup- 
board against the wall over the bed. 

“ Oh, no !” cried and, strangely enough, the fear 
which now possessed me came into my mind for the first 
time at this moment, “ don’t take that.” 

“ Nonsense,” said he, sharply. “ One must do it in 
self-defence nowadays. The rascals all carry arms.” 

He was proceeding to light a candle ; but I, haunted 


180 


MY CHILD AND L 


by the same unacknowledged fear as before, tried to dis- 
suade him, saying that if there really was a burglar in 
the house the candle would be more useful to him than 
to my husband. 

“ Go and call the servants,” said I, “ and I will make 
all the noise I can, and try to frighten them away.” 

‘‘You will do nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Keen, 
sharply. And then it flashed into my mind that he shared 
my own suspicions. “ If there’s a thief in the house, I 
want to catch him, and give him in charge. You stay 
here and keep as quiet as you can.” 

He thrust me back into the room, shut the door softly, 
and went along the corridor in the direction of the 
butler’s room. 

I dared not yet open the bedroom door again. So I 
lit my candles, and put my head down on the floor to 
listen. It seemed to me that the sounds down-stairs had 
ceased ; and I was rejoicing to think that the intruder 
had taken the alarm and escaped, when I was startled 
by finding myself suddenly seized and a hand placed 
tightly over my mouth. 

While I uttered a stifled cry, I managed to turn so as 
to get a view of my assailant. It was Harry. He wore 
workman’s boots and a shabby suit of clothes, and I had 
no doubt that he was the supposed tramp who had been 
seen by the gardener. 

As soon as he saw that I knew him, he released me, 
and, going back softly to the door, turned the key in the 
lock. 

“ All’s fair in love and war, mother,” said he, with his 
usual airiness of manner, as he put his arm round my 
neck and kissed me heartily. “ This escapade may be 
considered as partaking of the nature of both love and 
war, since there is love for you on my side, while you 
make the most shameless war upon me, and I am forced 
into reprisals. Fancy cutting your own son, as you did 
the other day! Why, mammie. I’m ashamed of you!” 

Even while he talked, his eyes roamed about the room, 
and ran over the objects on my dressing-table. When 
he had finished speaking, he darted to my dressing-case, 
of which he had just caught sight, and tried the lock. 

“Where’s the key of this?” demanded he, in a clear 
whisper. 


MY CHILD AND I. 


181 


“ Harry, Harry !” I expostulated, in agony, you are 
surely not going to rob me before my eyes !” 

“Don’t put it in that coarse way, dear mother,” re- 
turned he, coolly, and yet not without an odd note of 
playful affection in his voice. “ I am only going to do 
what all sons, and daughters too, have to do, — get their 
parents to help them when they can’t get help from any 
one else.” 

“ But, Harry, Mr. Keen will be back here in a minute. 
He has gone down to look for the burglar! And — and, 
Harry, he has a revolver, a loaded revolver I” 

To my horror, Harry, with a light laugh, produced 
from his pocket a similar weapon. 

“ So have I,” said he, simply. 

I could scarcely repress a cry. 

“But you would not use it; oh, you would not use 
it!” 

“ I would, though, if he did. There’s nobody in the 
world I hate like Mr. Keen. He has abused me to my 
aunt, if not succeeded in turning her against me. And 
now he’s doing a much worse thing, — shutting me out 
of my own mother’s heart.” 

Again there was a sound as of real feeling in his tones, 
although he was occupied all the time in transferring to 
his own pockets the loose articles of jewelry which lay 
in the silver and tortoise-shell trays on the dressing- 
table. 

“ Ko, Harry, it is your own acts that are doing that !” 
I cried, with spirit. “ Do you think it possible I should 
go on caring for a son who comes by night like a thief 
to rob his own mother ?” 

“ Oh, come, I know you don’t care so much for a few 
trinkets that you would let them weigh against your 
boy’s real necessities; for it has come to that indeed, 
mother. I had to get help somewhere, and, knowing 
that your heart was still ready to help me, though your 
hands could not, I thought I would use my own hands, 
and trust to your heart to forgive me. Where’s the key 
of this dressing-case ?” 

I pointed mechanically to the place where the key was 

lying- 

“What I would or would not do doesn’t matter,” I 
faltered. “When Mr. Keen finds out what you have 

16 


182 


MY CHILD AND I. 


done, he will have you arrested ; and you will be tried 
and convicted, whatever I may say.” 

“Not a bit of it. You will never tell him who the 
burglar was. Sb sh !” 

He looked at the door and listened. I heard the 
handle being softly turned. Then the door was shaken 
roughly ; but the lock held fast. 

“ Perdita I” cried my husband’s voice, “ open the door !” 

I uttered a little cry, as Harry, holding me tightly by 
my wrist, which he had seized, opened the nearest win- 
dow and looked out. 

“ Too far !” he muttered. But he left the window open. 

“ Open the door !” roared my husband from outside. 

“Yes, yes, William,” I cried, in tones of great distress. 

Harry, who was still holding me, smiled at my distress, 
whispered, “ Poor mother I” and kissed me on both 
cheeks. He seemed perfectly cool and collected, and 
was arranging the different articles he had taken, dis- 
tributing them in different pockets, so that none might 
look suspiciously bulky. 

At that moment there was a tremendous blow against 
the door from the outside. But it did not give way. 
Harry instantly blew out the candles. Then two sharp 
reports followed, and the key rattled in the lock of the 
door. 

“ They are trying to blow away the lock. They will 
never do that,” he whispered. “ I must say good-bye, 
mammie.” 

Once more he kissed me, as affectionately as ever, and 
in a moment was gone. 

I was so much bewildered that I groped about in the 
darkness for him, wondering where he had hidden him- 
self But before I had taken many steps there came a 
second and a third heavy lunge at the door : at the third, 
it cracked ; at the fourth, a panel came out. There was 
a light outside, by which I saw that a hand was put 
through the broken panel. The key was turned, the 
door burst open, and my husband rushed in. 

“ Where is he ? Where is he ?” he asked, between his 
set teeth. 

But his face was livid, and his eyes were glaring. I 
would not have told the truth then if my life had de- 
pended upon it. 


Mr CHILD AND L 


183 


“ Come, come, I know who was in here. I know, I 
tell you, and you shall confess it. I’ll have him taken 
up, as sure as my name’s Keen.” 

‘‘ It was a thief, a man I” I stammered. He’s got 
away. He’s ” 

I know he’s got away, and you’ve helped him, you 
doating fool I” roared my husband, who was beside him- 
self with rage. ‘- What’s this, and this?” 

He was inspecting my dressing-case, which bore con- 
clusive signs of the overhauling it had been subjected to. 

“ Has he — has he — taken anything ?” faltered I. “ I — 
I — I was frightened ; I didn’t see.” 

“ Nonsense. You saw well enough. You’re no coward. 
You would have shrieked out if it had been any one but 
the person who did it. And you shall admit it, you 
shall give evidence against the rascal ; for I mean to put 
a stop to this, once for all. He shall cool his heels at 
his country’s expense a little while, and when he comes 
out he will have had a useful lesson. Now,” and he 
stood over me in a threatening attitude, “ admit at once 
that you recognised him. Do you hear?” 

I was not so brave as he thought. I shuddered to see 
the look on my husband’s face, a look I had seen there 
before, but never before for me. Still, I could not bear 
witness against my own boy, my poor son, with his 
heritage of his father’s sins. I turned my head away, 
that I might not see my husband’s face as I answered, 
in a whisper, — 

“ I — I will admit nothing — even to you.” 

Violent as his temper was, my husband had never 
before, even in the height of passion, suffered it to get 
the better of him in his treatment of me. When, there- 
fore, I suddenly felt his hand on my shoulder, not in a 
caress, but with a sharp blow, I cried out, not in pain, 
for indeed the injury inflicted was not great, but in 
sorrow and surprise. 

We were still almost in the dark, the only light which 
came into the room being that of a candle held by the 
butler in the corridor outside. But I was able to see a 
figure, which I knew to be my son’s, spring from behind 
the bed-curtains and across the room to where we were 
standing. Without a word ho flung himself with all his 
force upon my husband, and, stripling as he was com- 


184 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


pared to the thick-set middle-aged man, he flung him 
heavily to the floor. 

Then, snatching my hand and pressing it one moment 
against him as he passed, Harry went rapidly and noise- 
lessly out of the room, passed the astonished butler like 
a flash of lightning, and made his escape without the 
slightest difficulty. 

For my husband was lying, stunned, upon the floor. 


CHAPTEK XXV. 

As soon as I had recovered my breath and my wits, 
which had been momentarily paralyzed by the sudden- 
ness of Harry’s onslaught and abrupt flight, I fell on my 
knees beside my husband, and called for a light. 

The butler with his candle, and my maid, who had 
been waiting in a distant corner of the corridor, afraid 
to come in, both hurried into the room. 

“He’s stunned, ma’am, only stunned,” said Sanders, 
the maid, who was a sedate person, not easily moved to 
hysterical excess of emotion. 

It was, however, some minutes before Mr. Keen recov- 
ered consciousness, and in the mean time I was suffi- 
ciently alarmed by his appearance to send for a doctor. 
Before the arrival of the medical man, however, my 
husband had sat up, looked about him, and, remembering 
quite suddenly the events which had preceded his loss 
of consciousness, had pushed me away from him, with a 
frown, and said, shortly, that I had better go to bed. 

Even the presence of the stately Sanders did not 
suffice to put a check on my tears. But Mr. Keen, in- 
stead of being moved by the sight of my grief, said, 
irritably, — 

“ This snivelling is absurd. If it is on my account, 
you yourself brought it on me. If it is for that scoun- 
drel, it is thrown away, for 1 can tell you I won’t leave a 
stone unturned till I’ve had him laid by the heels.” 

I signed to the maid to leave the room, and I judged 
by her intelligent promptitude in obeying, as well as by 
a look which she threw at me in passing, that she also 
had a decided opinion of her own as to the identity of 


MY CHILD AND L 


185 


the burglar. As soon as we were alone, I threw myself 
on my knees beside my husband, who was lying back in 
an arm-chair, with his eyes closed. 

“ Are you in pain, William ?” I asked, timidly. 

“ What’s that to you ?” he returned, roughly. 

“ It is everything, it is everything ; you know that !” 

“ Indeed I know nothing of the sort. It might have 
troubled you three months ago, before this young black- 
guard turned up. But things are altered between us 
now. You don’t care how you treat me, because you 
have this precious son’s affection to fall back upon. And 
I needn’t mind how I treat you,” he went on, with a 
sneer which was almost ferocious, “ now you’ve got such 
a champion.” 

I felt so miserable, so humiliated, that I could only 
cry my eyes out quietly without offering any more in- 
telligible apology than a dozen broken words. I tried 
to put my hand in his, but he pushed it away. 

“Don’t be a humbug,” he said, shortly. “You know 
my feeling about a wife : her husband is everything to 
her or he’s less than nobody. While I was everybody 
to you, or while you acted as if I was, you could do 
what you liked with me. But since you choose to let a 
scamp whom you must despise come between you and 
me, you are no more to me, I tell you, than the woman 
who brings home the washing. And you may take 
yourself off to bed as soon as you like. I’m going to 
wait for the doctor down-stairs; and to-morrow I’m 
going up to Kerr Street, where I can spend my nights 
quietly without fear of being knocked on the head by 
your self-styled son.” 

I tried to speak, tried to expostulate, but I had not 
yet recovered enough self-command to do so coherently. 
So I had to let him go down -stairs ; and it was not 
until the doctor had arrived, a few minutes later, that I 
was calm enough to present myself again before him. 
As soon as I had checked my tears and washed away 
tbe traces of them as well as I could, I went down-stairs, 
and tapped at the door of the library, where I had been 
told that my husband was sitting with the doctor. Mr. 
Keen frowned when I entered. 

“The doctor says I am to keep quiet,” he said, ab- 
ruptly. 


16 * 


186 


MY CHILD AND L 


The doctor, who was a stranger to me, had risen, and 
was looking at me with interest and curiosity. I knew 
that my husband, who liked to talk about anything 
which weighed on his mind, had been complaining, 
whether specifically or not I could not tell, of his wife’s 
conduct. I came to the point at once, having made up 
my mind as to the course I should pursue. 

“ And I am going to do my best to help you to carry 
out his instructions,” said I, turning to the medical man 
with a smile. 

My husband broke in quickly : 

“ There’s only one way of doing that, as far as you’re 
concerned.” 

‘‘ I know that,” said I, submissively. 

‘‘What!” cried my husband, jumping up from his 
chair, “you’ll give up that scoundrel to justice?” 

The doctor looked puzzled and a trifie scandalized, 
and rubbed his gold-rimmed spectacles discreetly. 

“ I will do that, or anything else, rather than that you 
should complain of me,” I said, my voice growing a little 
unsteady on the last words. 

“ I think, Mr. Keen,” broke in the doctor’s measured 
voice, “that Mrs. Keen will prove a valuable coadjutor, 
and that I cannot do better than leave you in her care. 
I will write you out a prescription, and I will see you 
again in the morning. Keep as quiet as you can, and 
if the headache continues in the morning I think it will 
be better to stay away from town and the worry of 
business for a day or two.” 

He took his leave, and my husband turned to me, with 
an assumption of coolness which did not deceive me as 
to the relief he felt at the course I had taken. 

“ Did you mean what you said when that chap was 
here, or was it only a pretty little scene, — wifely devo- 
tion, exquisite feminine submission, and all that ?” 

“ I meant it,” I answered, in a low voice. 

“And you’ll speak up in the witness-box when this 
fellow’s had up ?” 

I hesitated ; and my husband, who had laid his hand 
upon my arm, withdrew it, with a mocking laugh. 

“Yes, I will, I will do even that — if I must!” whim- 
pered I. 

And, having broken down altogether. I put my hands 


MY CHILD AND L 


187 


over my eyes and sobbed. My husband began walking 
up and down the room impatiently. He spoke, how- 
ever, more persuasively and less harshly than before. 

“ Come, come,” said he, “ isn’t it folly to make a fuss 
about giving such a rascal the punishment he deserves ? 
Allowing that he’s your son, which he may be for all I 
know, does that give him the right to break into your 
house and rob you ?” 

After a few moments’ pause, I answered, — 

“ It doesn’t give him the right to break into your 
house, at any rate, nor to take property which you gave 
me ; I see that. And so, if you insist, I — I — I ” 

“Well, all right; we won’t talk about it any more 
now,” said my husband, hastily. 

He had discernment enough to be sorry for me, and 
he did not wish to have his resolution to punish the 
offender broken down by my now submissive tears. So 
the subject was closed between us for that night, and on 
the following day, as he was still suffering from the 
effects of the blow and fall of the night, I took care to 
avoid that and every other subject which could irritate 
or excite him. 

Taking the doctor’s advice, he stayed away from town 
on that day, and spent the morning with Meg and me, 
roaming about the grounds and inspecting the stables. 
In the afternoon we persuaded him to lie down for a 
little while on the library sofa. 

Meg and I had not exchanged more than a dozen 
words on the subject of the burglary, and we were both 
shy of discussing it. This very reticence on her side 
confirmed me in my belief that she cared more for Harry 
than she chose to acknowledge; and I hardly knew 
whether I was altogether sorry that she should have 
placed her affection so unworthily, or secretly glad that 
there was one more creature in the world ready to take 
his part and to find excuses for him. 

We were both busy with fancy-work in the drawing- 
room, and both rather silent, when the sound of the 
front-door bell made us look up. There was an expres- 
sion of excitement and expectancy in Meg’s face which 
made me curious. It was not my “ day,” and I was not 
expecting any visitors. 

“ Who can it be ?” I asked. “ Do you expect anybody T 


188 


MY CHILD AND L 


“ I? Of course not,” she answered, quickly. “ I was 
only wondering — after last night ” 

Even as she paused, the door opened, and the footman 
asked whether I would see Mr. Carey. I almost cried 
out ; but Meg said, hastily, “ Certainly, certainly. Show 
him in at once.” 

The servant hesitated for a moment, looking at me. 
As, however, I said nothing, he retired, and as soon as 
he was gone I sprang up in great agitation and put my 
hand on Meg’s shoulder. 

“ What — what will your father say ?” I stammered. 

“ Mr. Deane Carey,” announced the footman. 

Deane ! 1 had not remembered his existence, and the 

name fell upon my ears with startling effect. Whether 
I felt relieved or disappointed I hardly knew. Sinking 
back in my chair, I held out my hand nervously. Deane 
did not appear to see it. I looked up in his face, and 
saw that he looked more shamefaced, more absolutely 
abject and miserable, than I had ever seen a human 
being look before. He had a bag in his hand, upon 
which he kept his eyes fixed as he stood, with bent head 
and stooping shoulders, in the middle of the room. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Carey ?” said Meg, very kindly, 
as she came quite close to him and held out her hand so 
that it was impossible for him not to see it. 

For a moment he hesitated. Then, looking at her, 
and speaking in a constrained, husky voice, he said, — 

“ Miss Keen, I cannot let you shake hands with me. 
I am here on a disgraceful errand, and I only want to 
get it over and get out of the house as quickly as 1 can ; 
and I hope neither you nor Mrs. Keen will think me 
ungrateful when I say that I don’t wish anything so 
heartily as that I may never see either of your kind 
faces again.” 

By this time I knew, of course, that the poor fellow’s 
errand was an apology for his cousin. 

“ Meg, my dear, you had better leave us for a little 
while. See,” I added, in a lower voice, ‘‘that your 
father doesn’t come in.” Turning again to Deane, I 
said, “ Mr. Keen is not very well. He might be angry, 
rude, impatient ” 

“ Indeed he has every right to be so,” said poor Deane. 
“But, if you please, I should like to see him too. I 


MY CHILD AND L 


189 


suppose he knows all about last night, and who was the 
cause of the— disturbance?” 

Meg, who had moved slowly towards the door, now 
ran hack again. 

Yes, yes, he does know ; we all know. What’s the 
use of sending me away, mamma ? There is nothing to 
be hidden from any of us now.” 

I think she was sorry for Deane, and anxious to see 
how I meant to treat him, and I felt sure she must be 
anxious also on Harry’s account. So I did not again 
urge her to go away, but, turning to Deane, asked him 
what had brought him. For answer he opened the bag 
he carried, and, with an air of the most guilty shame 
imaginable, took out of it the jewelry which Harry had 
robbed me of the night before. He put the things down, 
one by one, on a little table near him, and brought it 
over to me. 

“ Look at them,” he said. “ See whether they are all 
there.” 

Did he send them back ?” I asked, eagerly. 

But the answer was a bitter disappointment. 

“Ho. He did not return until early this morning. 
He had been drinking, and he fell asleep in an arm-chair 
in the sitting-room, after putting some of the things out 
on the table before him. I went into the room a little 
later to persuade him to go to bed, and I saw these 
things, and 1 knew where they came from.” 

He paused a moment, and I broke in, quickly, — 

“ Why did you bring them back ? How did you 
know, or think-, that I had not given them to him ?” 

“ It seemed unlikely,” said Deane, gently. “ But, as 
you say, I didn’t know— until later.” 

I shivered, and blushed. Deane presently went on : 

“ I shook him and woke him up, and he took me for a 
policeman come to arrest him. I turned out his pockets, 
sent him to bed, put all the things in a place of safety, 
and — and — here they are.” 

“ He let you bring them ? He was sorry this morning. 
As you say yourself, last night he had been drinking : 
he hardly knew what he was doing,” I pleaded, scarcely 
able to make mvself audible for the shame and grief I 
felt. 

“I didn’t give him a chance of objecting,” said Deane, 


190 


MY CHILD AND /. 


dryly. “ That is all I have to do here. As for apolo- 
gizing, I can’t do it.” 

He began to retreat towards the door as he spoke ; but, 
before he reached it, I heard my husband’s voice, in loud 
and angry tones, outside. He was evidently speaking to 
the footman who had admitted the unfortunate Deane. 

“ You shouldn't have let him in, you shouldn’t have 
let him in !” he thundered, loudly. 

The next moment he had burst open the door with 
much violence and entered the drawing-room. Meg flew 
across the room and put a restraining hand on his arm. 

“ Papa, papa, he’s brought back the things that were 
taken last night. He made him give them up,” she 
cried, eagerly. My husband, still frowning, glanced 
from the young man to the jewels on the table, which I, 
as well as Meg, was pointing out to him. Somewhat 
mollified, but by no means thoroughly restored to good 
humour, Mr. Keen said, shortly, — 

Why not have sent them ? I don’t suppose you’re 
an accomplice of your cousin’s, Mr. Carey ; but, frankly, 
he has given your name such an evil odour that I can’t 
make you welcome, however much I may appreciate 
your motive in coming.” 

The tone in which he spoke made these words almost 
insulting, and Deane writhed under them. 

“ I quite understand that,” he said, in a constrained 
voice. “And I will never obtrude myself upon you 
again. I would not have come myself, to give back 
the things, but that they were too valuable to send 
except by hand, and I knew no one to send them by.” 

He bowed stifliy to me, still more stiffly to Meg, and 
left the room abruptly. He had scarcely gone when 
Meg, who had retreated to the window, rushed up again 
to her father. 

“ Papa, you are cruelly harsh and hard !” she cried, 
fiercely. “ You ought to be sorry for him. It is not so 
pleasant to have to do as he has done, to come here and 
be treated like that.” 

And, to my astonishment, her voice suddenly broke ; 
she turned away, threw herself into the nearest chair, and 
burst into an agony of tears. But my husband frowned 
again. He was too much incensed against Harry to do 
justice to the cousin who was also his friend. 


MY CHILD AND L 


191 


“Among the blind the one-eyed is king,” said he, 
dryly. “ The companion of a thief seems a hero because 
he keeps his hands out of other people’s pockets. Keep 
your tears, my dear, for worthier objects.” 

And he left the room abruptly. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

I WAS very much touched by the gentle kindness which 
Meg showed me during the few weeks that followed. 
Indeed, without the help of her quiet sympathy I don’t 
know how I should have got through that unhappy time. 
For, although my husband never mentioned Harry, and, 
to my great relief, took no steps to punish him, he was 
never quite the same in his manner towards me after 
the night of the robbery. He seemed, too, to be per- 
manently affected in health by the consequences of 
Harry’s violence, and to become suddenly older in face, 
voice, and carriage. He was at this time about sixty 
years of age, but until this occurrence he had always 
passed for a much younger man. 

It must have been nearly a month before we heard 
anything more of either of the Careys. At last, one 
morning, I found on my dressing-table another letter 
from Harry to me. 

After some hesitation I furtively opened it. I could 
not even now look upon my son’s writing unmoved, but 
I had been schooling myself well, recognising that my 
first duty was to my husband and not to him. 

This was the letter : 

“ My darling Mother, — I must make this letter reach 
you ; though, if it did not, I don’t know whether I 
should have any right to complain. For I am a good- 
for-nothing fellow, not worthy to be your child, and it 
would have been better for you, if not for me, if 3’ou 
had never found me out. You would then have carried 
about with you always the remembrance ot me as I was 
when they took mo from you, and you would have been 
quite sure, in your dear good motherly heart, that I had 


192 


MF CHILD AND L 


always remained as innocent as I was and as lovable as 
I have no doubt you thought me then. 

“ I know your husband is enraged against me, and 
I don’t like to try and see you, for fear of making things 
unpleasant for you. You see, being dependent upon him 
as you are, it wouldn’t do to offend him, and I can’t say 
he is not justified in his view of me. Only, my darling 
mother, I hope you don’t think I am altogether a heart- 
less fellow ; for that is not so. Perhaps I am not bur- 
dened with too much Sunday-school morality, but I have 
the keen feelings all we ne’er-do-weels are cursed with, 
and I never fall asleep at night without the tormenting 
thought that I shall perhaps never be able to see you again. 

But remember, mother, I could have seen you freely, 
and should have been able to escape without exciting old 
Keen’s suspicions, if I had not been carried away by my 
feelings when I saw him strike you. Eemember that. 
It was the virtuous and adored husband that struck you; 
it was the despised and outcast son that took your part I 
However, I don’t want to sing my own praises : I should 
come to the end too soon. I only want to assure you 
that, although through the machinations of this Keen 
my aunt has thrown me over and I am in worse dif- 
ficulties than I have ever been in before, I am still able 
to bless the moment when I recovered my mother, and 
that I live in hopes, through all my troubles, of being 
able some day to feel on my face once more her forgiving 
kiss. 

Your loving, heart-broken son, 

Harry.” 

I could not help it. I did try hard to tell myself that 
this was only a cleverly concocted letter designed to 
work upon my feelings. In spite of my troubles, I was 
deeply moved, and unable for a time to do more than 
hang over my dressing-table and sob. Sanders had left 
me alone, and it suddenly occurred to me to connect this 
long absence of hers with the presence of the letter on 
my dressing-table. I touched the bell sharply, and in 
the glance I gave at her face as she re-entered I under- 
stood that my guess had been a shrewd one. 

“ Who gave you this letter for me ?” I asked, rather 
sharply. 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


193 


The woman, who was a tender-hearted creature, looked 
at me askance. 

“ Oh, ma’am,” she said, in a frightened voice, “ it was 
sent to me by post, with a note to me myself begging 
me to give it to you. And oh, ma’am, he’s such a nice 
young gentleman, and he did beg so hard and so pretty, 
that I hadn’t the heart not to do it. Though I know,” 
she added, mysteriously, “ how mad the master’d be if 
he knew !” 

So poor Harry had been able to make the charm that 
he exercised over most women work even upon prim, 
angular, sedate-looking Sanders I I said nothing, but 
just moved my head in assent, as I put the letter down 
upon the dressing-table. I did not wish to encourage 
her to help his correspondence with me, although I had 
not the heart to forbid it. 

The receipt of the letter had delayed me so much that 
my husband came presently to the dressing-room door to 
see why I was not ready. I opened it myself, with a 
smile ; but his sharp eyes detected the trace of tears on 
my face. 

“ You’ve been crying !” he said, abruptly. And, after 
a moment’s pause, he came into the room, and, shutting 
the door sharply, continued, with a frown of suspicion 
upon his face, “ What’s it all about this time? You’ve 
heard from that rascal again 1” 

I had put Harry’s letter in my pocket safely ; but my 
husband’s unexpected suspicions set me guiltily blushing, 
and I felt that my best resource was candour. 

“ Yes,” said I, “ I have heard from him. But I’m not 
going to answer the letter.” 

‘‘Will you let me see it?” he asked, authoritatively, 
after a pause. 

With much reluctance, I produced the letter, and handed 
it to him. He read it through, with a face I scarcely 
dared to look at, and, when he had finished, he laid it 
open on the dressing-table in front of me and brought 
his hand down upon the page with a tremendous thump. 
“ Look there ! Look there ! Head that. Doesn’t that 
show you ? Can’t you see that the young rascal shows 
his hand ? There, there !” cried he, in great excitement, 
as he made me read aloud one particular line in the 
letter. 


1 


n 


17 


194 


MY CHILD AND L 


It was this: “being dependent upon him as you are, 
it wouldn’t do to offend him.” 

“ The scoundrel is afraid of my keeping you short, so 
that you won’t be able to help him. And, by Jove, I 
thank him for an idea he’s given me I” he cried, starting 
up from the chair on which he had been kneeling with 
one knee. “ I’ve left you a good deal too much liberty 
as to what you shall do with your money when I’m dead. 
I must tie it up a bit, and I will.” 

“ William, William I” cried I, in great distress. 

“Yes, William — William knows what he’s about, and 
he’s not going to have his money squandered either 
when he’s alive or when he’s dead.” He suddenly stopped 
short on his way to the door, and, coming back to me, said, 
very kindly, “ My dear, it’s all for your own good, your 
own protection. You must see that. And, my dear, I 
shall send you away for a little while. This young ras- 
cal can get at you here, and with the continuation of his 
d — d existence life is becoming not worth living to either 
of us. I shall trust to your honour not to let him know 
where you’ve gone, and I shall give a word of warning 
to Sanders. I hate that woman, and I know it was she 
who brought you this letter. Preserve us from senti- 
mental old maids !” 

He kissed me kindly, and went out. By the time I 
saw him again he had already made up his mind where 
I was to go to, told Sanders to pack my trunks, and 
ordered the carriage round to catch a particular train. 
I was to go to Brighton, and he had already wired to 
engage rooms at the Metropole. 

“I shall be very lonely!” protested I, with a tremor 
in ray voice. 

“Not a bit of it. Meg’s going with you. She chose 
to go herself” 

I looked at the girl in surprise. She generally grum- 
bled very much at being asked to go anywhere with me 
without her father. But I was not yet satisfied. 

“Well, well, what more have you got to grumble 
about ?” inquired Mr. Keen. 

I hesitated, and walked to the breakfast-room window. 
He followed, and was surprised to find, as well he might 
be, that I was in tears. 

“ I — I can’t help it,” I murmured, as I dried my eyes. 


MT CHILD AND L 


195 


“ I know you will only laugh at me and say I’m very 
silly. But, William,” and 1 lowerea my voice, “I don’t 
like leaving you. You will think I’m growing into a 
nervous old woman, full of silly fancies. But I don’t 
want this change ; I would rather not have it. Let me 
wait till you can come down with us ; then I should en- 
joy it very much. Don’t, don’t let me go without you !” 

“ Why, what are you afraid of? Even if this young 
rascal should find you out, he can’t do you any harm!” 

“Not me, but you!” cried I, tremulously. “Oh, I’m 
afraid ” 

But my husband laughed at my fears, and told me that 
it was not at all likely that Harry would try any of his 
games when he had a man to deal with. 

Nevertheless, it was with a heart full of misgivings 
that I took leave of my husband at Charing Cross sta- 
tion, when he had put us in the Pullman. 

“ Will you wire to me every morning and every even- 
ing, just to let me know you’re all right?” I asked, 
anxiously, as he stood on the platform beside the train 
before it started. “I shall be anxious unless you do. 
Wire on your way to town in the morning and on your 
way back at night.” 

“ Oh,” said he, “ I shall stay at Kerr Street till you 
come back. But I will certainly wire, as you desire, if 
it will give you any satisfaction.” 

The last thing I saw of him was an expression of 
good-humoured amusement on his face, as he waved his 
hand to me from the platform. 

I sat back and pretended to read, in order to avoid 
talking. But Meg had something to say to me. Pres- 
ently I felt a light touch on my arm. 

“Do you know, mamma,” she said, in a low voice, 
“ that Sanders went away to send off a telegram before 
we started ?” 

I began to tremble. Truly my son’s restless machina- 
tions were beginning, as my husband had said, to make 
life unbearable! Shrewd little Meg had guessed, or her 
father had told her, that there was a conspiracy between 
Harry and the lady’s maid. I wondered whether it was 
the hope of seeing him that had brought Meg down with 
me to Brighton. If so, I felt that I must warn her 
without delay. 


196 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


Meg,” said I, gravely, I hope, my dear child, that 
you don’t care for ilarry Carey !” 

She burst into a merry laugh, but she looked away from 
me as she answered, — 

“ Set your dear heart at rest, mamma. If there were 
no man left in the world but Harry Carey, and if he 
were to spend his whole life in imploring me to care for 
him, I could only inform him politely that he was wasting 
his time.” 

Somewhat reassured by her decided tone, though I 
remained puzzled by her conduct, I sat back again. I 
had matter enough for reflection in debating how I should 
receive Harry, on the inevitable occasion of his reappear- 
ance on the scene. I was beginning to be genuinely 
anxious to shake him off, feeling that the maternal in- 
fluence, from which I had hoped so much, was only a 
temptation to him to fresh extravagance. 

I was still undecided when we reached our destination ; 
and Meg, who saw that I was disturbed and anxious, 
carried me oiF, after dinner, for a walk along the sea-front. 
We had got as far as the Kemp Town end, and were 
resting on the seat there, when I was startled by hearing 
the voice of Harry Carey close to my ear. 

Although I had known that it would not be very long 
before I should see him, I was so much startled that I 
uttered a little scream. Meg, who was sitting beside me, 
turned to the young fellow with a frown. Although I 
knew nothing, at that time, of the meeting that had 
taken place between them in the grounds of The Limes, 
I saw at once a look of open antagonism pass between 
them, as she said, sharply, — 

“ Is not this a fresh intrusion, Mr. Carey ?” 

He drew himself up with an injured air. 

“Knowing what you do about us. Miss Keen,” he 
began, warmly, “ surely you can’t expect that I should 
pass Mrs. Keen like a stranger when I am so fortunate 
as to meet her by accident.” 

“ Accident !” echoed Meg, sardonically. 

But Harry took no further notice of her. Seating 
himself beside me on the bench, after having persuaded 
me by a gesture to make way for him, he was over- 
whelming me with whispered assurances of his delight 
at meeting me. Meg, disgusted, got up and walked 


MY CHILD AND 1 . 197 

away. I summoned all my strength, and spoke to him, 
not indeed coldly, but with an air of determination. 

“ Harry,” I began, “ she is quite right : this is an in- 
trusion. You have thoroughly repelled and estranged 
Di® by your conduct, and I don’t pretend that I can 
regard you with the same feelings that I had for you 
before. That a man should get money and jewelry from 
his mother, not for his necessities, but for his vicious 
pleasures, is bad enough ; but when it comes to breaking 
into houses and stealing, he puts himself outside the 
pale of decent people’s sympathy. Besides, you hurt 
my husband, seriously I am afraid : nothing can make 
me forgive that.” 

“ Why did I hurt him ?” asked Harry, passionately. 

Because he was hurting you. Because it was impos- 
sible for me to keep my hands oif a man who dared to 
strike my mother.” 

I trembled a little, but I would not let him see that I 
was in the leased touched. I went on calmly with my 
harangue. 

I have not lost all feeling for you, as you 
choose or pretend to suppose. But I see that I have 
only been doing you harm, instead of helping you, by 
supplying you with the means to indulge in dissipation 
beyond your means. I have been helping you towards 
your own ruin. Well, I am glad of an opportunity of tell- 
ing you that I am going to do so no longer. When you 
have given up your wicked, wasteful habits, and have 
settled down steadily to work like your cousin, nobody 
shall prevent me from seeing my boy again as often as I 
like. But so long as you use me only as a means of 
providing yourself with money to waste, I shall certainly 
take my husband’s advice and refuse even to speak to 
you again.” 

It was not easy to say this, especially as I noticed in 
my unhappy son’s dress and bearing signs that he was, 
as he himself would have put it, ‘'down on his luck.” 
There was something which I felt to be humiliating even 
to myself in the hang-dog way in which he listened. 
But I knew I was right, and so I went doggedly on with 
my lecture. 

When I had finished, Harry raised his head suddenly. 

“ Your husband’s advice ! Yes, that’s it ! That’s the 
17 * 


198 


MY CHILD AND I, 


influence working against me, hardening you against 
your only child ! D — n him !” he cried, with so much 
sudden ferocity that I was frightened. “ I wish I had 
killed him that night when I only stunned the brute !” 

I was so much appalled by the depths of malignity 
which I so unexpectedly perceived in my own son that 
for the moment I could not speak. Harry went on, in 
the same savage tone, — 

“If he were dead you wouldn’t turn a deaf ear to 
your boy in his necessities !” 

This speech revived all the terrors which had assailed 
me that morning, and which had made me so anxious 
not to leave my husband. 

“ Pray dismiss that thought at once from your mind,” 
I said, hastily. “ For he told me only this morning that 
he meant to make such arrangements that, if he were 
to die, I should find my hands absolutely tied, and be 
more unable to help you than I am now.” 

Harry started to his feet with an oath. For a few 
moments he stood before me, clenching his fists, while 
his eyes glared wildly before him without appearing to 
see me. Then he burst into a harsh laugh. 

“ He said that, did he ? Then — then,” he stammered 
for a second, “ of course there’s no more to be said. I — 
I am afraid I am intruding, as Miss Keen said. Good- 
evening, Mrs. Keen !” 

He raised his hat, turned, and hailed a passing cab. 

“ Station !” he called, briefly, to the driver. 

I started to my feet, and called to Meg, who was a 
little way oif, looking at the sea. 

“Meg, Meg,” I cried, “we must go back to town at 
once, at once.” 

“ Hush, mamma !” she said, soothingly. “ What are 
you afraid of?” 

“I — I — don’t know, my dear child,” said I, tremU' 
lously, “ but I pray that — that we may be in time !” 

For we had to call at the hotel first, and the cab Harry 
had taken was the only one in sight. 


MV CHILD AND L 


199 


CHAPTER XXYIL 

I HURRIED Meg along the parade so fast that I gave 
her no opportunity to expostulate. It was not until we 
met a cab and got into it that she tried to remonstrate 
with me. But as soon as we were seated, she put her 
little hand coaxingly into mine, and said, — 

“ Xow, mamma, 1 want to persuade you to see that you 
are very silly. Don’t you think, if you go back to town 
to-night, that papa will say the same ?” 

Undoubtedly there was only one answer to be given to 
this question. Mr. Keen liked his arrangements to be 
carried out, and he was more likely to scold me for my 
folly than to laugh at it. Meg pursued her advantage : 

“ What can you say to him to explain it ? You can’t 
even say you’ve had a dream, since you haven’t passed 
the night away from home ! Really, mamma, I think 
you have a very poor case !” 

I began to think so too. 

My dear,” said I, with less firmness, “ it is difficult 
for a girl like you to realize the state of mind of a des- 
perate man. Harry Carey is desperate. He thinks him- 
self injured by your father, and — and I don’t know what 
he will do. You see he is so very daring, so very rash !” 

“ He will hardly dare to break into The Limes again,” 
said Meg, reassuringly. “ And, if he does, he won’t find 
much there that it would be worth his while to take 
away, for papa has taken your jewelry up to town.” 

“ But I am afraid — you know he is so impetuous — that 
he will try to see your father, and — and ” 

“ He can’t see papa if he goes to The Limes, because 
papa won’t be there. You know he’s going to sleep at 
Kerr Street, and Harry Carey can’t know that. Sanders 
didn’t know it herself when she wired to him.” 

This fact, which I bad forgotten, comforted me. My 
husband was safe, for that night at any rate, from any 
manifestation of Harry’s malignant feeling towards him. 
I gave a sigh of relief, as I leaned back in the cab. Meg’s 
voice, speaking with some scorn, soon roused me. 

“ What an absolutely selfish, heartless, and altogether 


200 


MY CHILD AND L 


worthless sort of person he is !” she exclaimed, energeti- 
cally. “ Mamma, how can you like him T 

Of course this sweeping condemnation sent me flying 
to arms. 

Indeed, Meg, you were not always so severe upon 
him yourself Eemember it was you yourself who intro- 
duced Mr. Carey to me ; you were most anxious for me 
to show him hospitality. Your very face betrayed, on 
that afternoon when he rowed up to The Limes, that you 
took a particular interest in him.’^ 

Meg hesitated a little before she answered. When she 
did, it was in a demure and gentle tone. 

“ It is quite true, mamma, that I did take an interest 
in — in Mr. Carey.” 

Well, and if that interest were altogether dead, what 
made you come down here ? For I suppose you had your 
suspicions, as I had, that we should see something of 
him as soon as he found out that I was alone.” 

“jWhy,” said Meg, laughing softly, “ I will go so far as 
to confess that it was the hope of seeing or hearing 
something of — Mr. Carey that brought me down here.” 

I looked at her in astonishment. 

Then how, knowing too the relationship between him 
and me, can you be surprised at my aifection, my forgive- 
ness ?” 

For a few moments Meg did not answer. Then she 
said, — 

“ Oh, mamma, oh, dear mamma, how can you be so 
blind ? How can you suppose it possible that I should 
love Mr. Carey, selfish, heartless, unprincipled, when there 
is Mr. Carey, unselfish, true-hearted, and honourable 
always by his side to show him up ?” 

At first I did not take in the meaning of her words. 
As for me there could be but one Mr. Carey, my mind 
began to work on the assumption that she was speaking 
only of Harry, and I was comforted by the thought that 
she found in my son a dual nature, of which the one part 
was as estimable as the other was hateful. 

“ You mean, then,” said I, gently, “ that you would not 
speak to him to-night because to-night his worse nature 
was uppermost ?” 

Then Meg destroyed at one blow my pretty little 
hypothesis : 


MY CHILD AND I 


201 


‘^Why, mamma, what other sort of nature is ever 
uppermost in Harry Carey? The one I mean is Deane.” 

Deane ! I had forgotten all about him ! 

The girl’s words gave me a tremendous shock, not 
wholly of surprise ; for even now I felt something like 
disgust at the idea that any girl could prefer the silent 
and heavy Deane to the lively and fascinating Harry. 

Oh,” I exclaimed, coldly, when I had recovered from 
the first shock of astonishment, ‘‘then I suppose you 
are in correspondence with him ?” 

“Mamma!” exclaimed Meg, indignantly, “you don’t 
understand Deane any better than you do his cousin. I 
don’t know even whether he cares for me. Sometimes I 
have thought so, but he is far too honourable to make 
love to a girl whom he feels he is not in a position to 
marry. And now I know that shame at his cousin’s 
behaviour will keep him away from me as long as he 
lives !” 

I was silent. I was irritated by the discovery of Meg’s 
- liking for Deane. I had never in my heart given up the 
hope that her supposed love for him was to be his salva- 
tion. However, of course I could not reproach her, 
while at the same time there was nothing in the pros- 
pects of her love for me to congratulate her upon. I was 
somewhat impressed by the girl’s manner. This was, as 
far as I knew, the first affection she had ever felt for any 
man which went beyond the bounds of the most transient 
liking; and the effect upon her manner as she spoke 
of it was very striking. It made her rather sad, very 
gentle, and infinitely more lovable. 

Ho further word was exchanged between us until we 
reached the hotel. As we went up-stairs to our sitting- 
room, a waiter ran after us to say that a gentleman had 
called to see me, and that he had left his card and said 
that, as his business was important, he would call again 
that evening. The card bore the name “ Mr. J. G. Boyle, 
Solicitor,” and an address in Lincoln’s Inn. 

The name was unknown to me, and I was much puz- 
zled as to what his business with me might be. But 
my suspense did not last long, for I had scarcely reached 
our sitting-room when “ Mr. Boyle” was announced. 

My visitor was a tall, portly, middle-aged man, upon 
whom years of confidential business with clients of high 


202 


MY CHILD AND L 


rank had left their impression in a certain mixture of 
lofty deference and dignified urbanity which had now 
become his habitual manner. 

“ I have the honour of addressing Mrs. Keen, I believe, 
Mrs. Perdita Keen ?” he began, suavely, as soon as he 
entered. 

Yes, my name is Perdita Keen,*^ I answered, rather 
apprehensively, for I thought at once that he must have 
come concerning some escapade of my son’s. 

Mr. Boyle glanced at Meg, who, being too quick-witted 
to require any words, made an excuse to leave us alone 
together. 

“You have come to see me on business?” I asked, 
nervously, as, after asking him to be seated, I placed my- 
self in a chair in such a position that the electric light 
did not fall upon my face. “ I wish you had written 
instead of coming, for I know little of business, and I 
would have referred you to my own solicitor.” 

“ That would have been of little use to me, madam,” 
said Mr. Boyle, in the tone of one who is used to ride 
over difficulties easily and pompously. “ My business is 
with yourself. I am the family solicitor of Lord Wal- 
linghurst.” 

1 started up in great agitation. Then, controlling 
myself with a great effort, I asked, “ And what is your 
business with me ?” 

“I have come direct from his lordship, to ask you 
whether you will come and see him.” 

“ See Lord Wallinghurst ! I !” 

A hundred strange ideas were chasing each other in my 
head. How had he heard of me? What did he want 
with me ? Ought 1 to go ? After a long pause, I said, — 

“ I do not refuse, but I should like to consult some one 
first.” 

“ I am afraid, madam, that I must have 'yes or no 
at once from you. Lord Wallinghurst is dying. He 
wanted me to bring you back to town to-night. There 
is a doubt whether he will live until the morning.” 

I had no longer any thought of refusing to go. It 
was stupefaction, consequent upon the great issues which 
I felt to be at stake, which kept me silent. But Mr. 
Boyle, not understanding this, evidently thought that I 
suspected some trap, some proposal to my disadvantage. 


MY CHILD AND L 


203 


“ I am violating no confidence in telling you/’ he said, 
in his solemn, smooth tones, “ that the object his lordship 
has in view is your advantage. His lordship wishes to 
do an act of reparation.” 

I began to tremble violently. 

‘‘ Eeparation I” I echoed, in a quavering voice. 

‘‘Yes. You were married, I believe, madam, when 
very young, to a younger brother of Lord Walling- 
hurst’s ?” 

“ I thought I was married to him.” 

Mr. Boyle, with a large white hand, courteously waved 
the doubt away. 

“We are aware, madam, that circumstances tended to 
cast a doubt upon the validity of the marriage. But we 
incline to the opinion that the marriage was valid, all 
the same.” 

Yalid ! My first marriage valid ! Then, if not to me, 
what a difference it would make to my son ! 

“I think,” pursued Mr. Boyle, “I have told you 
enough to make it clear that you can lose nothing, and 
may gain a great deal, by complying with the wish of 
my client. I may add that I have seen Mr. Keen to- 
day, and that he offered no obstacle, as you may see from 
his having at once told me where to find you. There is 
time to catch the last train to town. I shall think my- 
self very happy if I may escort you.” 

“ I will come,” said I, briefly. 

To inform Meg that I had to return to town that 
night, to get her consent to be left at Kerr Street, to 
settle our bill at the hotel, and to leave my maid to do 
the packing, was the work of a few minutes only. We 
caught the ten-nineteen train to town. 

Lord Wallinghurst’s house was in Eaton Square. 
There was some anxiety, in the minds of the solicitor 
and myself, as to whether we might not, after all, be too' 
late. But the servant who opened the door reassured 
us. His lordship was a little better, and had given word 
that Mr. Boyle and the lady were to be shown up to his 
room the moment they arrived. 

I entered the sick-room, prepared to see in the dying 
earl a resemblance either to my first husband or to his 
father so strong as to be startling. But I found nothing 
of the kind. The Lord Wallinghurst whom I now saw 


204 


MY CHILD AND L 


for the first time was a man of different build altogether, 
tall, thin, spare, precise, altogether without the touch of 
humorous geniality which had formed the charm of his 
father and brother. It was only in certain tones of his 
weak voice that I could detect any likeness to Harry 
Dare. 

Although he was too weak even to sit np supported 
by pillows, his mind was perfectly clear, and he raised 
his hand feebly to take mine as I approached the bed- 
side. 

“ I can’t talk much, Mrs. Keen,” said he, in a voice 
which was hardly more than a whisper, “ so you must 
forgive me if I seem startlingly abrupt. I aip discharg- 
ing now a duty which ought to have been discharged 
two-and-twenty years ago, when my brother Harry died. 
He wrote me a letter asking me to look after his wife, 
and her child who was not yet born. Well, you know 
perhaps what poor Harry’s reputation was, and that he 
had quarrelled with all the family and been sent abroad. 
So I did not pay to his appeal the attention which, 1 
suppose, I ought to have done. At any rate, I did not 
answer him. However, when I heard he was dead, 
through my aunt Stephana, I did make inquiries of her. 
She told me that there were two ladies who claimed to 
be Harry’s wife, and that neither of them had any claim 
to the title.” 

I started at these words. I had always understood 
that Lady Stephana knew the woman Kellie to be Harry 
Dare’s real wife. I seemed to remember that she had 
told me so. If this was not the case how could I doubt 
that I, whom Harry Dare had married in a church with 
all the necessary formalities, had been his legitimate 
wife ? Why had I not been more explicit with Lady Ste- 
phana ? Certainly she had treated me with so much 
evident antagonism, had so openly espoused the cause of 
the woman Kellie against me, that I had had from her 
little encouragement to confidence. 

These thoughts passed through my mind while Lord 
Wallinghurst, momentarily exhausted by the effort of 
continued speaking, lay back silently resting. Presently 
he made me a faint sign that he was ready to go on with 
his discourse. 

“ I had no reason to doubt the truth of what she told 


MV CHILD AND L 


205 


me, he said, especially as she always took Harry’s part 
when she could. So when she said she had taken the 
matter up herself and done all she could for both women, 
I did not trouble myself further about the matter. Until 
— until ” 

He began to breathe heavily, as if exhausted by the 
prolonged effort of this narration. Then he made a sign 
to Mr. Boyle to continue the story for him. The lawyer 
therefore took up the tale in the following words : 

“Six months ago, Mrs. Keen, his lordship had the 
misfortune to lose his only son, who fell ill of influenza 
about the same time as his lordship. Lord Walling- 
hurst’s brother, the Honourable George Larent, having 
died nearly sixteen years ago, Lord Wallinghurst began 
to make inquiries, with a view to finding out who was 
the next heir to the title. The question whether the 
late Harry Darent had or had not been legally mar- 
ried now became an important one, since if he had left 
a legitimate son, that son would undoubtedly be the next 
heir. Lady Stephana could give us no assistance; she 
believed that no marriage at all had taken place. Quite 
recently, however, we discovered the woman Kellie 
Styles, and found conclusively that, though she had lived 
with Harry Darent and borne him children, she had 
never gone through any ceremony of marriage with him. 
At the same time she showed so frantic a jealousy of the 
second claimant of the position of wife to Harry Darent 
that we were convinced her claim was a better one. So 
we traced you out, Mrs. Keen, and, in the interests of 
your son, who has, I understand, been brought up by 
Lady Stephana, we beg you to afford us all the informa- 
tion in your power.” 

I was so much shaken by this narration that at first I 
could not control my voice to speak. If only my son 
had been more deserving of his good fortune, what a 
glorious moment this would have been ! How deeply I 
should have rejoiced that, having found my child, I could 
now remove the supposed stigma from him, and be able 
to restore him to a brilliant position I As it was, I was 
tormented by the fear that his succession to the title 
would not only be the means of bringing more discredit 
upon an ancient and honourable name, but also, by giving 
him greater facilities for his vices, hasten the ruin in 

18 


206 


MY CHILD AND L 


which his course of life must sooner or later involve 
him. 

Both Lord Wallinghurst and the solicitor saw that my 
agitation was great, and they waited patiently while I 
endeavoured to recover some calmness. At last Mr. 
Boyle said, — 

“We shall be glad, in the first place, Mrs. Keen, if 
you will let us know where you were married and the 
date.” 

I gave the required information at once, fully and 
without the least hesitation. I saw the two gentlemen 
exchange glances. 

“ And I understand, from what Mr. Keen told me to- 
day,” went on the lawyer, “that you have discovered 
your son, and made yourself known to him ?” 

“ Yes,” said I. 

Again Mr. Boyle looked at the sick man ; but he no 
longer got a glance in response to his. Lord Walling- 
hurst was drawing breath with difficulty, and the watch- 
ful nurse, whom the earl had dismissed into the adjoin- 
ing dressing-room, now came up to the bedside, and 
signed to us imperiously that our business with the 
patient was at an end for the present. Indeed this was 
clear to our eyes, for Lord Wallinghurst was no longer 
conscious of our presence. 

Mr. Boyle led me down-stairs to a cold, formal draw- 
ing-room, whence I could look, through primly-draped 
archways, through a vista of more cold, formal rooms. 
Here I waited while he returned up-stairs. 

But I was not left long. Twenty-two minutes I had 
watched the hands of the great gilt Empire clock on the 
mantle-piece, when the door opened again to admit him. 
He wore an air of pompous gravity which prepared me 
for the announcement he had to make : 

“ I am sorry to tell you, Mrs. Keen, that his lordship 
has passed away. Peacefully, I am happy to able to 
add, very peacefully. He was just able to signify to me 
that his mind was at ease. This matter of the succes- 
sion has been troubling him a long time, a very long 
time. Through your kindness in coming to-night, it has 
been cleared up.” 

“But — but,” stammered I, “you are not yet sure! 
You can’t be sure I” 


MY CHILD AND L 


207 


“We shall have to go through a great deal of work 
before your son’s claim is perfectly established,” answered 
Mr. Boyle, discreetly. “ But I have no doubt that in a 
few weeks the necessary formalities will have been got 
through, and you will add to the social distinctions you 
already enjoy that of being the mother of the Earl of 
Wallinghurst.” 

The words rang in my ears as I went down the steps 
of the big, silent house, in the chilly light of the early 
morning. My son was now Lord Wallinghurst: my 
son ! my own son ! 


CHAPTEE XXYIII. 

It was nearly four o’clock in the morning. I had 
been in the late earl’s house more than three hours. A 
cab had been sent for, and I drove to Kerr Street, where 
I was let in by one of the servants, who had been sitting 
up for me by Meg’s orders. I went quietly up to one of 
the spare rooms which was kept always ready, and fell 
asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. 

I was so much prostrated by the emotions as well as 
the physical fatigue I had gone through that I slept late. 
When I woke up, I found Meg sitting at the foot of the 
bed, with her eyes fixed on me with what seemed to me 
an unusual expression. I started up in vague alarm. 

“ What’s the matter, Meg ?” I asked, quickly. 

She withdrew her eyes at once from my face, and 
laughed. But this did not reassure me. 

“ I only wanted to know how you felt after the fatigues 
of yesterday, and whether you slept comfortably,” said 
the girl. 

“ But you had something to tell me, I feel sure,” I 
persisted. Meg looked down, and smoothed the counter- 
pane. 

“ Well, yes, mamma, I had. I thought you would be 
interested to hear that you were right about something 
you said yesterday.” She bent forward to whisper into 
my intently-listening ears. “ Harry Carey did go down 
to The Limes last night. Eichards has been up this 


208 


MV CHILD AND L 


morning, and he told me so. 'Now, don’t look like that, 
and don’t tremble so. He didn’t do any harm ; he didn’t 
even get into the house. Eichards saw him out of his 
window ; so he went down and lit the hall gas, and I 
suppose that frightened him away.” 

“Where is your father now? Have you seen him 
this morning? Eingthe bell for Sanders, dear. I must 
get up. I want to see your father before he goes out.” 

“ You’re too late, mamma. He went out half an hour 
ago. He would not disturb you, he said.” 

I felt unaccountably anxious and worried on learning 
that I had missed him. Meg, observing this, tried to 
divert my thoughts. 

suppose, mamma, it is of no use to ask you where 
you went so mysteriously last night ? I asked papa, 
but he only frowned and said that you had gone on 
business of your own. How, your business always 
means Harry !” 

“ Well,” said I, rather snappishly, I’m afraid, “but, as 
you don’t take any interest in Harry, my business would 
not concern you very deeply.” 

Meg received the snub quite imperturbably. 

“ I beg your pardon,” she said. “ I do take an interest 
in Harry, a very strong interest.” 

“ Yes. But only because whatever affects him affects 
his cousin Deane !” 

Meg sighed. 

“ I wish I hadn’t said anything to you about Deane, 
mamma,” she said, rather sadly. “ Of course it can 
never come to anything ; I don’t even know whether it 
would if all things were going right with him. But I 
did just want you to know that — that I was not just 
idly flirting that day you found us outside the orchid- 
house ; or, rather, if I was flirting, it was in the way 
one flirts with only one !” 

I sighed. 

“ There ! Why do you sigh ? It’s too bad of you to 
sigh I You pretend to be so anxious, you and papa, that 
I should not care for some worthless man. Well, even 
papa admits that Deane Carey is not worthless.” 

“ Oh, dear, no ! Hot worthless, by any means,” said I, 
hastily. “On the contrary, his worthiness is a little 
oppressive.” 


MY CHILD AND L 


209 


“ This is only the force of contrast, I’m afraid, mamma.” 

“ Oh, of course I know poor Harry exposes himself to 
sneers of that sort !” cried I, almost tearfully. “ And, 
as there’s no one to lend him a helping hand. I’m afraid 
he will never reach his cousin’s height of perfection !” 

“I’m afraid not, mamma,” said Meg, dryly, as she 
went out of the room and Sanders came in. 

I had a cup of tea, and then dressed quickly ; for it 
was late, and I wanted to see my husband before the 
time when he would be too busily occupied in receiving 
his clients for me to dare to disturb him. I wanted to 
tell him the startling tidings I had heard the night 
before, feeling sure that, with the instinctive reverence 
of the rich man for money and position, he would con- 
done a good many of Harry’s faults when he knew that 
they were the faults of an earl. But I was too late. 
When I got down-stairs I was told that Mr. Keen had 
gone to his study, and that he had already had a client 
with him. “A young gentleman,” the footman said. 

On hearing this I, after a moment’s pause, put another 
question. 

“A young gentleman whom you know? whom you 
have seen before ?” I asked. 

“ I don’t think so, ma’am. But he wore blue specta- 
cles, and was so muffled up about the throat that I should 
find it hard to recognise him.” 

“Yet you said he was young?” asked I, with some 
anxiety. 

“ I told that by the voice and the walk, ma’am.” 

Blue spectacles and a muffler always suggest disguise, 
and the young clients, of whom my husband had many, 
were a careless race, not given to disguises. I seated 
myself in the dining-room, near enough to the window 
for it to be impossible for any one to go down the steps 
into the street without my seeing him. 

It was twelve o’clock when I took up this position, 
and at one nothing had happened to disturb me or to 
arouse my attention. Meg flitted in, tried to persuade 
me to come for a walk with her, and, failing in the 
attempt, went out alone. A gentleman called, driving 
up in a neat brougham with a coronet on the panel. 
Evidently a client. But he was told that, as he had not 
made an appointment, he could not be seen that morning ; 
o 18 *^ 


210 


MY CHILD AISID L 


and he got into the brougham and drove away, with an 
angry and mortified expression, and with maledictions 
on his lips. 

When one o’clock struck, I began to he uneasy. My 
husband’s methods were of the short and sharp kind : 
his clients did not usually have long to wait for their 
answer, whatever that answer might be. At last I sum- 
moned the footman, and asked whether the young gen- 
tleman with the blue spectacles and the muffler had 
gone yet. As I had expected, the answer was “No.” 
Although Mr. Keen sometimes escorted an important 
client to the door himself, the footman was always near 
enough to see or hear when this happened. 

“ This gentleman’s a very long time with Mr. Keen I” 
I exclaimed, anxious to be reassured by the man’s re- 
marking that there was nothing very extraordinary 
about it. But the footman said, at once, — 

“Yes, ma’am, he is a long time. I never remember 
any one being so long with my master before. It’s gen- 
erally in and out again in no time.” 

Without further comment, I went back into the dining- 
room, feeling restless and sick at heart. Half-past one 
struck on the dining-room clock. I rang the bell sharply. 

“Do you think Mr. Keen has gone out again, John?” 
I asked, trying to hide the anxiety which consumed 
me. 

“No, ma’am, I don’t see how he could without my 
seeing or hearing him,” answered the young man. 

I dismissed him, and, after a few irresolute turns up 
and down the room, left the dining-room and walked 
along the passage which led from the hall to the study- 
door. 

The door was on the left hand, and it opened into a 
kind of anteroom, the purpose of which I conceive to 
have been to increase the solemnity of entrance into the 
sacred sanctum beyond. At this outer door I knocked, 
after listening and hearing no sound. Indeed I did not 
expect to hear anything ; for the inner door was, as I 
knew, covered with baize, for the attainment of extra 
privacy. I knocked again, and then I softly turned the 
handle of the door. 

It was locked. 

My first impulse was to scream for assistance to open 


MY CHILD AND L 


211 


the door ; my next, to go down softly on my knees, and 
try to pick the lock with a hairpin. In this diflScult feat 
I was at last successful. Then I went very quietly into 
the anteroom, closed the outer door after me, and ap- 
proached the baize-covered door of the inner room. 

At first, as I listened, I could hear nothing but my 
own heart beating. Then I became conscious that some 
one was moving about with great caution inside the 
room. The next thing that attracted my notice was the 
rustling of papers, and after that a grating sound as 
of a file at work. 

“William! William!’’ I cried, as I tapped sharply at 
the door. 

All was instantly quiet. 

“William! William!” I cried again, with another rap 
at the door. “ Let me in, let me in ! I will come in ; I 
must. Open the door, or I will call the men to burst it 
open !” 

Some one came close to the door, and said, “ Hush !” 

But I knocked again and again, raining blows upon 
the door until it shook and creaked on its hinges. 

“ Open it, open it ! I will come in !” I almost shrieked. 

My loud cries did what my entreaties could not do. 
The door was opened a very little way, and the voice 
of my son Harry spoke behind it. 

“ Harry !” I cried, but in a more subdued tone. “ What 
are you doing here ?” 

“We are busy. Go away for the present, mother 
dearest. We will come directly.” 

But my misgivings were so strong that I could not be 
satisfied with half a dozen words. 

“ Is Mr. Keen there ?” I asked, rapidly. Then I called 
out, in a louder voice, “ William, are you there ?” 

There was no answer from my husband, but Harry 
said, hastily, — 

“ What do you want ? What is it you want ?” 

“ I want to come in,” I cried, resolutely. 

And, before my son realized my intention, I gave a 
vigorous push to the door, forced him backward into the 
room, and made my way in. 

The room was in great disorder, papers, account-books, 
note-books, bills, being scattered about in every direction, 
while open drawers and cupboards testified to the fact 


212 


MY CHILD AND L 


that I had caught my sou in the very act of ransacking 
the place. I uttered a cry of horror. 

“ You are robbing him, robbing my husband!” ^ cried, 
aghast. 

“ Hush, hush, mother!” said Harry, in a voice as trem- 
ulous as my own. “ Don’t be foolish. I was doing no 
harm.” 

“ Ho harm ! Ho harm I Then what is the meaning 
of all this?” 

My eyes fell, following the direction of his, on the fire- 
place, where a small fire smouldered rather than burned. 
Fragments of charred paper lay in the grate and lingered 
between the bars. 

I ran forward and picked up a small piece of the de- 
stroyed paper. It was a legal document of some kind. 

“ Harry, what was this ? What have you done ?” 
said I. 

Turning, I saw that he was ghastly white, and that 
his usual callous levity of manner had given place to 
nervous trembling. The suspicion came at once into my 
mind that my husband was returning, and that Harry 
had heard his step outside. 

I ran to him instinctively, fearing the scene which 
must ensue if the two men met. 

‘‘ Is he coming ? Did you hear him ?” whispered I. 

Harry started convulsively, and put out his hand to 
thrust me away from him. Then, recovering himself 
with an effort, he said, — 

“ Good-bye, mother, good-bye. I’m off. You run away, 
run away. You — you don’t want to be caught here.” 

With a wave of the hand which was only a feeble 
imitation of his every-day manner, he went towards the 
door. I noticed that he staggered as he went out, and 
that he paused a moment in the outer room. Then he 
passed quickly and silently along the passage and hall, 
and I heard the front door close with a slight slam 
behind him. 

For I was holding the baize-covered door open, afraid 
lest he should meet my husband on his way out. Then, 
when he had got safely away, a thought struck me : 
how had Harry managed to get in, in the absence of Mr. 
Keen ? It was my husband himself who always gave 
permission for any one to be admitted, and the footman 


MV CHILD AND L 


213 


never ushered any client in without this formality. John 
knew his duties too well to let anybody in while his 
master was away. On the other hand, my husband 
would certainly never have left Harry alone in his room, 
on any pretence whatever. 

As these thoughts came into my mind, my first idea 
was to call John. But then I stopped, seized by I 
scarcely know what paralyzing fear. I stood listening; 
I looked furtively round the room. At my feet, in the 
middle of the floor, lay a sofa-cushion, an antimacassar, 
and a grey woollen mufiler. I stooped down, and picked 
them up. The next moment, with a stifled scream, I let 
them fall from my hands on to the floor. On that part 
of the carpet which they had covered was a pool of 
blood. 

Giddy and sick with an awful fear, I staggered against 
the writing-table. As I did so, I noticed that the tall 
fourfold screen, which usually stood between the table 
and the door, had been moved into the corner. On the 
floor in front of it I saw again traces of the terrible red 
stain. 

For one moment, petrified with my forebodings, I stood 
staring fixedly at the screen. Then, springing forward, 
1 tore it down. 

Lying on its back in the corner, between the screen 
and the wall, with the blood still flowing from a wound 
in the forehead, was the dead body of my husband. 


CHAPTEK XXIX. 

Strong as my foreboding of evil had been, the dis- 
covery of my husband, silent, unresponsive, motionless 
forever, gave me a shock so overwhelming that I think 
for a few moments I, kneeling on the floor by his side, 
grasping the hand which would never more feel the 
touch of mine, must have lost my consciousness of every- 
thing. 

For I remember that I seemed to wake suddenly with 
a start, and that I called to him by name, forgetting that 


214 


MV CHILD AND L 


I knew he was dead, and that I held his wounded and 
disfigured face against my breast, and, putting my hand- 
kerchief to his temple, tried to stop the flow of blood. 
Then I shouted for help, in a voice which was almost a 
scream. I would not let myself believe that he was 
past help, that the man 1 had known so full of life and 
energy, so fiery, so autocratic, would never be obeyed, 
never be feared again. The longer I knelt by him the 
more certain did 1 feel that in a few moments I should 
see him open his eyes, hear an impatient ejaculation in 
the loud, imperious voice I knew so well. 

Some one heard me, after a little while, — I think it 
was Meg, — and then the room was in a few seconds full 
of people ; and I, still holding my husband’s head, still 
hoping against hope, said, “ Hush !” and watched to see 
whether the noise would rouse him. 

But he was never to be roused again, as everybody 
saw but myself. 

Out of the subdued tumult of sounds and cries and 
exclamations of horror and despair, I heard Meg’s clear 
voice, crying, — 

“ Who has done this ? John, who came in to see him 
last ?” 

I looked up, and saw the girl’s white face, and the 
servant’s, in a dreamlike haze in which nothing else was 
distinguishable to me. And then I found myself hang- 
ing on the lad’s answer with a terrible fear in my heart. 

‘‘A gentleman, ma’am, in a long, shabby overcoat, 
with a muffler round his neck. That’s the mufller, 
ma’am,” added he, pointing to the one I had picked up 
from the flo*or and thrown down again. 

“What name did he give?” continued she, with an 
appearance of firmness and coolness which astonished 
me. 

“He didn’t give no name, ma’am. He said, ‘Say — a 
client.’ And my master turned round and caught sight 
of him in the anteroom, and he said, ‘ Oh, it’s you, is it ? 
Come in.’ ” 

“ And did you show him out ?” 

“ Ho, ma’am.” 

“ Did you know the gentleman ?” 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“ You had never seen him before ?” 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


215 


“ N’ot as I know, ma’am. But I couldn’t see his face 
well, because of his muffler. I saw he wore glasses.” 

“ JSe was a gentleman, you say ?” 

“ I think so, ma’am. He spoke like one, and he walked 
like one,” said John, whose experience had taught him 
discrimination. 

? Then Meg’s interrogatories came to an end, and I 
breathed more freely. And there was a movement in 
the group, and I heard a cry. 

I looked up, and saw in some one’s hand a revolver. 

“ He’s shot himself!” 

“ Hush 1” 

I listened, trembling. If they would believe this, all 
would be well : so I said to myself, shuddering with fear 
for my son. 

Then some one discovered that the safe was open, with 
the key hanging in the lock. Among bundles of papers, 
deeds, and old letters, there was the cash-box. I saw 
Meg draw it forward, and unlock it with a key which 
was in the lock. She held up a bundle of bank-notes. I 
felt a thrill of relief, at the same time that I must con- 
fess to some astonishment. Had there, then, been no 
robbery? What, then, had been the motive of the 
intruder ? 

In the mean time, while these investigations were 
going on, I was left in the corner undisturbed, with my 
husband’s body against my knees. They all knew that 
there was no hope, and they watched my ineffectual 
efforts to bring life back to the dead man with pity only. 

It was left to the doctor to tell me the truth against 
which I had struggled. As soon as he came he had me 
led away to another room, telling me gently, at once, in 
answer to my despairing questions, that my husband 
had been dead some time. 

I dragged myself up-stairs to my room, and threw 
myself on to the sofa. I could not think ; I could scarcely 
grieve: I was stunned by the double misfortune which 
had overwhelmed me. 

My husband dead ; my son his murderer I The blow 
was too heavy: it was scarcely conceivable. 

I don’t know how long I remained prostrate from the 
shock, when there was a tap at the door, and Mr. Boyle, 
the late Lord Wallinghurst’s solicitor, was announced. 


216 


MY CHILD AND L 


Of course I could not see him ; but the remembrance of 
his existence, and all that it implied to my son and to 
me, added the sling of irony to my misery. For had 
not my unlucky boy brought himself within the utmost 
penalty of the law at the very moment when his claim 
to a title and a handsome income was on the point of 
being proved ? 

Again and again I asked myself if there was any way 
of escaping the conclusion that it was Harry who had 
shot Mr. Keen. But I saw none. If it had been an 
accident, he would have told me so. And what advan- 
tage had he hoped to gain by the crime ? For the whole 
of that day I pondered these things, finding, I think, in 
the very anxiety, the very worry my perplexity caused 
me, some relief from the pain of my loss. 

On the following day an inquest was opened, only to 
be adjourned for ten days. In the course of those ten 
days many things Jiappened. 

In the first place, I received a sanguine letter from 
Mr. Boyle, saying that he had searched the register of 
marriages at St. Clement Danes, and found the entry 
of my marriage, corresponding in every detail with the 
information I had given him. He also said he had 
written to Lady Stephana, asking for the fullest infor- 
mation concerning my son. As she was in America, he 
could not hope to receive an answer from her for at least 
a month, but in the mean time he begged that I would 
see him again. 

I was living with a sword hanging over my head. 
Although John, the footman, who would be the principal 
witness, had neither recognised my son when he came 
in nor seen him as he went out, I was in terror lest some 
evidence should be forthcoming which would fasten the 
crime on Harry. This was the more to be feared since 
both Meg and Burgess, the former by her silence on the 
subject and the latter by innuendoes, left me in no doubt 
as to the person whom they believed to be guilty of the 
murder. 

With these anxieties on my mind, my consternation 
may be imagined when, two days after the death of my 
husband, “ Mr. Harry Carey” was announced. I could 
scarcely restrain myself from springing off the sofa on 
which I had been lying. 


MY CHILD AND L 


217 


“ Tell him,” I said to the servant, in as steady a voice 
as I could command, that I am not well enough to see 
anybody.” 

“ I told him so, ma’am. But he said he should like to 
come in to write a few words on a card for you. And I 
showed him into the drawing-room. And just at that 
moment there was another ring, ma’am, and Mr. Boyle 
came. You wished to know, ma’am, when he came, so I 
showed him into the drawing-room too.” 

This intelligence disturbed me. Knowing how un- 
principled my son was, and how keen he was to take 
advantage of anything which tended to his own interest, 
I was sure he would not be many minutes in finding out 
something from the lawyer, and in making some unjusti- 
fiable use of the information so acquired. I went into 
the next room, the window of which commanded a view 
of the street: and in a short time I saw Harry and Mr. 
Boyle go out of the house together, and walk down the 
street engaged in earnest conversation. 

The following day was that appointed for the funerals 
of both Lord Wallinghurst and my husband, and on the 
morning after, this paragraph in one of the daily papers 
caught my eye : 

“At the obsequies of the late Lord Wallinghurst, 
which took place yesterday at the historical family seat 
in Kent, where, in a vault in the little church at Heron- 
den, so many generations of the earl’s ancestors have 
found their last resting-place, great interest was created 
by the report that the late earl’s nephew and successor 
was among the mourners. This young gentleman, whose 
history is a romance of the most thrilling kind, and who 
has been brought up in ignorance of his near connection 
with the late earl, is now only waiting the arrival of 
certain documents from America, where they are in the 
possession of his great-aunt, the Lady Stephana Parent, 
in order to establish his claim. In the mean time he is, 
on account of the recent decease of his relative and of 
another bereavement the tragic details of which have 
been made known to the public, living in complete 
retirement, from which he only emerged yesterday to 
pay his mournful tribute of respect to the memory of 
his lamented kinsman.” 


K 


19 


218 


MY CHILD AND L 


I laid the paper down in stupefaction. This was 
audacity indeed. For I could have little doubt that the 
above paragraph was inspired if not supplied by my 
enterprising son himself. 

On that very day I received another and still more 
startling proof of what my son was capable of in the pur- 
suit of his own interests. Having recovered sufficiently 
from the first shock of my husband’s death to be able to 
see his lawyer, I learned from him in a few minutes 
the reason of my son’s crime. 

“ I am afraid that this interview cannot be otherwise 
than very distressing to you, Mrs. Keen,” he began, kindly, 
“ but at any rate it will assure you, if indeed you needed 
assurance, of the high regard your husband had for you.” 

I bowed my head. Knowing that it was my own in- 
nocent act in searching out and discovering my son which 
had brought about my husband’s death, these words 
seemed a reproach to me. 

The lawyer looked carefully at a document he held in 
his hand, and then at me, before he said, — 

The will the contents of which I am about to make 
known to you — a will, I must tell you, by which you 
benefit almost to the exclusion of any one else — is not 
the last your husband made.” 

He said this in so emphatic a manner that I looked up 
inquiringly, and he went on : 

“ It is dated half a dozen years ago. It is a singular 
circumstance that on the very day before his death he 
sent for me to make a fresh will.” 

The room swam round me : I began to understand. 

“ Mr. Keen then showed exactly the same consideration 
and affection for you as before ; but he seemed to fancy 
that, if you were to be left in uncontrolled possession of 
much property, you would be imposed upon by some per- 
son or persons who did not requite your interest and 
your kindness as they ought to have been requited. The 
will, therefore, which he made last week, left you in the 
hands of trustees, for your own protection.” 

I listened without daring to look up. My husband 
must have gone further than this, — must have told him 
whose influence it was that he feared for me. Did the 
lawyer suspect anything ? It was impossible to tell, from 
his even, business-like tones. 


MY CHILD AND L 


219 


/‘That last will cannot be found, or rather enough of 
it has been found to prove that the document, as a whole, 
is no longer in existence. For I was in the study in 
which your husband’s body was found, by permission of 
the police, before anything was meddled with ; and I 
found, by some charred scraps of paper in the fireplace, 
that the will just made had been burnt.” 

He paused here, and I, knowing very well who had 
done this, moved my head in assent without daring to 
speak. He took up his discourse again in the same dry 
tone : 

‘‘ The question is, of course, whether he destroyed the 
will himself — and it is a strange thing, mind, for a man 
to alter his intentions from one day to another in this 
manner — or whether the will was destroyed by some one 
whose prospects would be injured by it.” He paused 
impressively. “ In fact, the question is whether the 
destruction of the will does or does not give the clue 
to your husband’s violent death.” 

I wondered then what he knew, what he guessed ; I 
wonder now. 

So terrible were my fears that he did know, and that 
he would use his knowledge to bring to account my 
guilty son, that I did, without intention, the very best 
thing that I could have done both for myself and Harry : 
I slipped off my chair and fainted, for, I think, the only 
time in my life. 

When I came to myself, Meg was with me, and so was 
Sanders ; while the lawyer peeped in from the outer room, 
from time to time, asking how I was. The sight of him 
brought back my terrors. He must have noticed this, 
for he came in, when I had entirely recovered, and, taking 
my hand very kindly in his, said, — 

“ You are not strong yet ; you are not yourself, Mrs. 
Keen. The anxieties you have been sutfering have been 
too much for you. But take heart, keep up your courage. 
We will take care that you shall have no more worry, if 
we can help it ; won’t we, Miss Keen ?” 

Meg assented doubtfully. The fact was that the girl 
was continually hearing from Burgess that the suspicion 
resting on Harry was growing strong, and she knew that 
while this was the case there would be no peace of mind 
for his unhappy mother. 


220 


MY CHILD AND L 


The day following this was that of the inquest. 

It was a terrible ordeal, though not quite so terrible as 
I had feared. The distress under which I was labouring 
had left unmistakable traces in my appearance; and my 
haggard face, which looked whiter than ever against the 
sombre mourning garments 1 wore, created sympathy 
for me which was more necessary than I supposed. 
For it had not occurred to me, as it had occurred, either 
with or against their will, to others, that I myself, bene- 
fiting as I did by the destruction of the new will, might 
myself be suspected of having had a hand in my hus- 
band’s death. 

This view, however, did not perhaps occur to the 
jury, who were probably not in possession of the facts 
concerning the new will and the old. I was treated 
leniently, therefore ; and, as there was no suspicion in 
the minds of the coroner and the jury that I had actu- 
ually met the murderer face to face, my statement as to 
the position in which I found the body was taken just as 
I gave it, and, luckily, no one thought of questioning me 
as to the presence of another person in the room. 

Fortunately, too, although John, the footman, could 
give full details as to the arrival of the gentleman in the 
shabby overcoat and the grey muffler, he could neither 
swear to his identity nor give the time of his departure. 

The third witness of any importance was the doctor, 
who proved the finding of a bullet in the skull of the 
dead man. He had fitted it into the revolver found on 
the floor of the room, and was of opinion that it had 
been fired from that weapon. Death had, he deposed, 
necessarily been instantaneous, but whether self-inflicted 
or not he could not say. 

Evidence was then called to prove that, although the 
safe in the room had been opened and the contents had 
shown some disorder, a large bundle of bank-notes had 
been found in the cash-box. Although one juryman was 
astute enough to suggest that some gold might have been 
taken and the bank-notes left as being more difficult to 
get rid of without exciting suspicion, this theory did not 
receive the attention I thought it deserved. 

The inquiry did not last long, and there was only a 
brief interval of suspense before the jury returned the 
following verdict : 


MY CHILD AND L 


221 


“ That deceased died from the effects of a bullet- wound 
in the head, inflicted by a revolver ; but how or by whom 
the revolver was fired there was not sufficient evidence 
to show.’^ 

“ [tTot sufficient !” I heard Burgess Falconer mutter, be- 
hind me, as soon as the verdict had been given. “ No, but, 
by Heaven, there shall be before we hear the last of the 
case !” 

“ Sh-sh said Meg’s voice, gently. “ She’ll hear you I” 


CHAPTEE XXX. 

I WAS taking a little lonely walk by myself in the 
square at the end of the street about two days after the 
inquest, when my attention was attracted, I don’t know 
how, by a shabbily-dressed man, blear-eyed and unpre- 
possessing of countenance, on the opposite side of the 
street. As soon as my eyes fell upon him, he turned his 
head away and looked into the square. I hardly noticed 
this at the time, knowing of no reason for taking a 
special interest in him. But presently it dawned upon 
me that his footsteps on the one side of the road always 
kept pace with mine on the other, and that, moreover, 
my looking at him was always the signal for his looking 
away from me. 

I came to the conclusion that he was a professional 
beggar who had me in his eye as a possible victim, but 
that for some reason, such as the near neighbourhood of 
a policeman, he was waiting for a favourable opportunity 
for attacking me with his importunities. 

And yet I was not altogether satisfied with this con- 
clusion. The man did not look exactly like a beggar : he 
wore a tall silk hat of ancient fashion, and a particularly 
threadbare, not to say slimy, frock-coat, for one thing ; 
and, for another, it seemed to me that his face was 
familiar to me ; and, in the third place, a beggar would 
surely have seized the opportunity of my looking at him 
to sneak across the road and ask for alms. Instead of 
19 * 


222 


MY CHILD AND Z 


doing so, he suffered me to return home unmolested ; but 
I saw through the window, when I had gone into the 
dining-room, that he was standing on the pavement and 
looking up at the house with a particularly sinister ex- 
pression. 

It was in the afternoon, and the day was foggy and 
dark. I went up-stairs and opened the drawing-room 
door. I had left Meg sitting by the fire, answering 
letters of condolence on a blotting-pad on her knee. As 
soon as I opened the door, I heard her voice, speaking 
very gently. Some caller was with her then ; and John, 
whose wits had been sent to flight by the events of the 
last few days, had forgotten to tell me so. 

“ ^N'o one — except, indeed, poor mamma — will be more 
pleased than I if you really carry out your good inten- 
tions,” she was saying, gently. 

I wondered to whom she was speaking, as the words 
were not at all like ordinary drawing-room small talk. 
I did not, however, dare to look into the room, lest I 
should be seen by the visitor, and be forced to enter and 
join the conversation. I was retreating, closing the door 
very softly, when I was petrified to hear Harry’s voice in 
answer to hers. 

‘‘ You are too good to me, and so is she, — ^much too 
good,” he said, so fervently that one could imagine that 
there were tears in his eyes. “ I am not worth so much 
kindness, so much sympathy. But indeed. Miss Keen, 
if you could know what a strange life I have lived for 
the last few days, what entirely new experiences I have 
passed through, you would not wonder at the change 
you see in me.” 

After hesitating for a few moments, in doubt whether 
my ears heard aright, I slowly opened the door and 
entered the room. 

Meg was still sitting by the fire, the light of which 
glowed on her black dress and sad little white face. She 
was on a very low fancy chair, and was leaning on her 
knees, so much interested in the talk she was engaged 
in that the blotting-pad had slipped on to the floor un- 
heeded. 

Opposite to her, with his back to the murky and fading 
daylight, sat Harry on a sofa, with his face hidden in 
his hands, the picture of melancholy, even of despair. 


MY CHILD AND L 223 

I was startled beyond measure. What had he been 
confessing ? 

I had entered so quietly and the light was so far gone 
that even now neither man nor maid perceived me. I 
stood in the middle of the room, looking at them, and 
not daring to speak until 1 had some clue to what had 
passed. 

Suddenly Meg lifted her head, and, leaning forward to 
try to look into his face, she said, vehemently, — 

“ You know, I can’t tell even now what to think, or 
whether I am to believe you !” 

Harry gave a deep sigh. 

The prodigal son doesn’t get so well treated in these 
days as he was once !” said he. 

“That’s because he’s contracted a habit of lapsing 
from his repentance,” retorted Meg, who, even when she 
was sympathetic, could not forego an opportunity for an 
apt answer. 

“ But you can’t tell that of me, because I’ve never 
repented before,” objected Harry, gently. “And — and 
listen, Meg, — I must call you Meg this once, because I 
always think of you as Meg,” he went on, with a note 
of humility in his voice which to me sounded irresistibly 
touching, and which even Meg, I think, found it impossi- 
ble altogether to resist, — “ listen. If I had never known 
you, I don’t think I should ever have repented ” 

“ Don’t use that horrid word : it’s like a tract I” ob- 
jected Meg. 

“ Well, I mean it would never have occurred to me to 
be sorry I had wasted my money and my time, and 
disappointed every one who has ever taken any interest 
in me,” pursued Harry, rapidly. “ But when the news 
came that I was really now Earl of Wallinghurst, it 
pulled me up, you know, — make me think. It was so 
entirely unexpected, you see. I had always been led to 
believe that I was less than nobody, a sort of outcast of 
society, to be excused because of my unfortunate posi- 
tion. I had known that to make a nice girl my wife, 
especially a rich girl, was as much out of the question 
as if I had been a crossing-sweeper. So I amused my- 
self, and did my best not to think. But of course you 
can’t understand this ; perhaps you don’t believe it. 
But I give you my word, the strongest feeling I had 


224 


MV CHILD AND L 


when I found out that I was Lord Wallinghurst’s suc- 
cessor was that if only I had been a better fellow I 
should have been able to come to you and beg you to be 
my wife.” 

At these words I uttered a low cry. Meg scrambled 
to her feet, and even Harry started violently. It was 
a long room, and the darkness outside had increased 
rapidly : even if Harry had looked up before this, or if 
Meg had turned her head, they would very likely not 
have seen me, as I stood in my black gown against the 
dark curtains which divided the outer from the inner 
drawing-room. 

“ Mamma !” cried Meg, and “ My mother I” exclaimed 
Harry, at the same moment. 

I came forward hastily. 

‘‘What are you doing here? What have you been 
saying to Meg?” I asked, in a bitter tone. 

“ He has been trying to persuade me, mamma,” said 
the girl, as she put her hand affectionately about me, 
“ that I should make a countess. It’s absurd, isn’t it ?” 

“Yes, yes, of course it’s absurd, unheard of!” I cried, 
tremulously. “ So — so soon after your fathers death, 
too ! Oh, Harry, Harry I” 

My horror at the outrage upon decency which he was 
committing was so great that words expressive of the 
emotions I felt refused to come. Stammering incoherent 
words, I sat down and clasped my hands in despair. 

“ Meg, Meg, why do you listen to him ?” I suddenly 
asked, with energy. 

“ Mother, it is only the unjust and unfair that won’t 
listen,” said he, quickly. “Meg has been listening to me 
because she is honest and fair-minded, and likes to hear 
what a man has to say for himself before she condemns 
him.” 

I looked, straining my eyes to see in the firelight, from 
him to her. She was still hanging about me, almost as 
if I could protect her from Harry and his wiles. 

“ Go, dear, go,” I whispered to her. 

Before Harry had time to realize her intention, she 
had given me a rapid little kiss on the chin, and run out 
of the room. I sat down on the sofa from which he had 
risen, and addressed him at once, not with the tenderness 
he was accustomed to in me, but coldly and austerely. 


MV CHILD AND L 


225 


You have no right to come here,” I began, repelling 
sharply his attempted caress. “You have no right to 
speak to Meg or to me again. I have been weak and 
foolish in my treatment of you, as my husband often 
told me. But I have learned one lesson by his cruel 
death, and I mean never to see you or to speak to you 
again after this meeting.” 

“ Spoken like a dear, impulsive old mammy !” cried 
Harry, seizing my hand and covering it with most un- 
welcome kisses. “ If you meant it, even for the moment, 
perhaps I might manage to hate you — also for the mo- 
ment. But you don’t mean it, and so I have nothing to 
do but to sit here as quiet as a mouse, and wait till you 
are ‘ good.’ It isn’t in you to be unkind for more than a 
few minutes to your poor boy, — ^your poor, bad boy, if 
you like, but still your boy !” 

These words set me trembling. Infamous as his con- 
duct had been, deep as the sorrows were which he had 
caused me, I was even now not wholly insensible to his 
voice, to his pleading eyes. I kept my head turned 
away from him as I answered, — 

“ You need not fear that I shall forget the fact which 
is the greatest sorrow of my life. I am your mother, 
your unhappy mother. And you, my son, have mur- 
dered my husband.” 

Harry started up in as much apparent indignation as 
if my words had been the first intimation he had received 
of the charge which hung over him. 

“Good heavens, mother, what are you saying?” he 
burst out, passionately ; “ have you any idea what it is 
you are accusing me of?” 

For one moment, one blessed moment, I was fond 
enough to entertain a ray of hope that the awful thing 
I believed might be a delusion. But, in spite of his 
words and tones, I saw something in his face which 
belied them. I shook my head and put my handkerchief 
to my eyes. 

“Do you think,” he went on, in the same manner, 
“ that, if this fearful thing were true, I should dare to 
look you in the face, or to show my face in this house ? 
Ah !” he suddenly exclaimed, as if a new thought had 
flashed into his mind, “this accounts for the coldness 
with which Meg treated me at first. You have told her, 


226 


MY CHILD AND L 


perhaps told everybody, your own shocking suspicions, 
and turned them all against me! Well, never mind. I 
haven’t been used to much kindness at the world’s hands ; 
I don’t know that I have deserved much. I haven’t 
anything to suffer that I haven’t suffered already, — 
unless, indeed, you contrive to hang me!” 

His injustice was so flagrant that I was not much 
moved by this speech. Seeing this, he changed his tone, 
and, seating himself again beside me, he took one of my 
hands in his, and went on, in a coaxing voice, — 

“After all, mother, I don’t know why I should be 
indignant at your thinking such a thing! If I had 
always behaved well you would never have thought of 
such a thing, no matter how much appearances had been 
against me. And of course they are against me,” he 
admitted, with a sigh. “ Will you let me tell you what 
really happened?” I bowed my head in assent, and he 
went on : “ When I went into the study, your husband 
scowled at me, and asked me very insultingly what I 
wanted. I told him I only wanted to be allowed to see 
my mother freely and without restraint, and that I had 
a right to do so. But he flew into a passion, swore he 
would send you out of the country and have me arrested, 
and at last, when I refused to go until he had given me 
a calmer hearing, he pulled open a drawer in bis writing- 
table, and took out a revolver and levelled it at me.” 

I listened, but incredulously. Eising to illustrate his 
words by his gestures, Harry, with every appearance of 
intense excitement, went on : 

“ I saw his intention, or what I supposed to be his 
intention, sprang forward, and we struggled for the 
revolver. While we were doing so, I heard a sharp 
crack, and, to my horror, old Keen fell on the floor. My 
first impulse was to call for help ; but the next moment 
I saw he was dead, and remembered that if I brought 
any one in I should draw suspicion on myself” 

“ Not so much suspicion as you have drawn by run- 
ning away! And — and what were you doing in the 
room — afterwards ?” 

“ Well, mother, he was dead, and I couldn’t bring him 
to life again,” answered Harry, in his usual easy tones. 
“ So I confess that I had a look round, and, coming upon 
a most unjust will, evidently drawn up when he was in 


MY CHILD AND L 


227 


the heat of passion, by which you were to be deprived 
of all control over your own money, I did you a good 
turn by destroying it.” 

I was aghast at this cynical confession, and shocked 
by the cool rascality the meaning of which I well knew. 

^‘If you had any idea of profiting yourself by this 
act,” I said, coldly, as I rose and walked towards the 
door, “I assure you you made a mistake. I don’t mean 
to let my husband’s money benefit you !” 

Harry was taken aback. Then he murmured, — 

“ What d — d ingratitude !” 

I had heard a ring at the bell, and, looking at my 
watch in the firelight, I saw that it was about the time 
that Burgess was now in the habit of coming home. 
Turning to Harry, I was going to warn him that he had 
better not meet my step-son, when 1 heard hurried foot- 
steps coming up the stairs, and I knew that I was too 
late. A moment later Burgess burst into the room. 

It was now so dark that for half a minute he did not 
see the man of whom he was in search. When at last, 
muttering below his breath, Where is he? Where is 
the rascal ?” he caught sight of Harry, who had coolly 
kept his place on a chair between the fireplace and the 
window-curtains, he made a spring towards him. 

“Ah! You d — d scoundrel, you dare to show your 
face here I You dare, you ” 

He broke off as the other slowly rose, and, seizing 
him by the collar of his coat, tried to drag him towards 
the door. But Harry, although the shorter and slighter 
of the two, had the advantage of being entirely master 
of himself, while Burgess was in a frenzy of rage. As 
soon, therefore, as he felt the touch of Burgess’s hand, 
Harry hit out, dealing on his assailant such a swinging 
blow that the latter was thrown off, staggering, and fell 
to the floor. Harry, walking coolly to the door, said, 
simply, — 

“ Never meddle with a man unless you are sure you’re 
a match for him. Good-bye, mother, I shall see you 
again soon.” 

And, giving me a kiss on the cheek before I knew 
what he was going to do, he left the room, ran down 
the stairs, and walked out of the house as quietly as an 
ordinary morning caller. 


228 


MY CHILD AND L 


I would not stay to hear Burgess’s iudignant com- 
ments upon my conduct in receiving Harry ; so I left 
the drawing-room, when I had made sure that he was not 
hurt, and remained in my own room until dinner-time. 

But I was not to escape like this from the troubles of 
the day. 

Dinner was just over, and Meg and I were on our way 
up-stairs, when the footman announced that a man wished 
to see me. 

Always on the alert now for bad news, I felt as if my 
heart ceased beating as I asked what it was the man 
wanted with me and what his name was. 

“ He wouldn’t give no name, ma’am,” said John ; ‘‘ but 
he said he had something to tell you that he was sure 
you would wish to hear yourself.” 

“Tell the man,” I said, with sudden haughtiness, think- 
ing boldness was certainly the best policy, “that it is 
impossible for me to see unknown people about unknown 
business.” 

I was at the top of the staircase. From the hall 
below, a common, hoarse voice startled me. 

“ Tell the lidy,” the voice said, in what seemed to me 
to be an ironical tone, “ if she can’t see me, Mr. Falconer 
will do as well.” 

I shivered from head to foot. 

“ Tell the man, John,” said I, in the meekest of quiet 
voices, “ that I will see him. Show him into the outer 
library.” 

When I entered the room into which he had been 
shown, I recognised the man at once. It was the shab- 
bily dressed individual whom I had seen following me in 
the square. 

“ Begging your pardon, ma’am, for disturbing of you,” 
he began, with a swaggering assumption of extreme 
courtesy, “ but I have some information to give which^ I 
thought it might be worth your while for to hear.” 

“ Go on,” said I ; “ what is it ?” 

My affected indifference had some effect upon him. It 
made him more emphatic. 

“ It is concerning the way your respected husband, 
the late Mr. Keen, come by his death, ma’am,” he went 
on, pompously. “ Maybe, ma’am, I know more about it 
than anybody.” 


MY CHILD AND L 


229 


“Indeed?” said I, still controlling my voice better 
than I could my feelings. “ And why did you not give 
your information at the proper time and place, — at the 
inquest ?” 

For a moment the man hesitated, and glanced at me 
askance. 

“ Well, ma’am,” he said, at last, “ I thought as how — 
I’m a poor man, lidy, and times are hard — I thought 
perhaps, if I kept what I know to myself a little, as it 
might be worth somebody’s while to buy it, lidy.” 

“ Indeed !” I raised my eyebrows incredulously, though 
I felt sick with suspense. “I should think that very 
unlikely.” 

“Well, ma’am, before I leave this house, I should like 
to take Mr. Falconer’s opinion about that !” said the man. 

And in his voice I noticed for the first time a menace. 

“But,” and again his tone became insinuating, “per- 
haps I’d better tell you, lidy, that I’m the care-taker at 
^^* 0 . 25 in this street, and that I was cleaning the winders 
at the back of No. 86 Warre Street on the morning of 
last Thursday, lidy. Now, the back winders of No. 86 
Warre Street look right into your late respected hus- 
band’s study, lidy.” 

This was true. I felt giddy and powerless. After a 
moment I said, — 

“ And you saw something, I suppose ? What was it ?” 

He paused, as if to give weight to his hideous infor- 
mation : 

“ I saw a man shoot your husband through the head, 
lidy” 

“ And you — ^you know the man ?” 

“ Well, lidy, I will not deceive you. I do not know 
him in the way of knowing his name,” said he, with an 
assumption of excessive frankness. “ But I could point 
him out anywheres. He’s been here, lidy, since your 
respected husband’s death. That’s what give me the 
idea as how it might be useful to you to know this before 
any one else, lidy.” 

What should I do ? What should I do ? I looked at 
the man’s low, cunning face and greedy, shifty eyes. 
He knew more than he pretended, — knew that if he 
could not levy black-mail upon me, there was still a 
chance of getting something out of Burgess. While I 

20 


230 


MY CHILD AND L 


hesitated, the door opened, and Meg’s bright little face 
looked in. She cast at my unlovely visitor a look full of 
intelligence. 

May I speak to you a moment, mamma ?” she asked. 
‘‘We won’t keep this gentleman long waiting.” 


CHAPTEE XXXI. 

So abject a coward had the events of the past few 
weeks made me that I hailed the young girl as a pro- 
tectress and deliverer ; and, turning hastily to the would- 
be blackmailer, I asked him to wait a few minutes, and 
left the room with Meg. 

“ Mamma,” said she, in a decided tone, as soon as we 
were in the drawing-room together, “will you tell me 
what that man has come about ?” 

I hesitated to tell her. 

“ Well, I can guess,” she went on, when I paused. “ He 
has found out something, and he wants you to buy his 
knowledge. I have seen him hanging about this house, 
watching everybody who went out, ever since — ever 
since papa died, and I guessed that he wouldn’t leave us 
alone long. Will you let me speak to him ?” 

I felt half inclined to consent to this ; her abrupt little 
ways when she had made up her mind to anything would, 
I thought, have more effect upon the man than my own 
more nervous manner. 

“ Or, better still, will you let Burgess get rid of him 
for you ?” 

I started with a cry. 

“ Burgess ! Xot for the world !” 

Meg went on, in a matter-of-fact voice : 

“ Why not, mamma ? He knows as much as I do,” — 
I started again,— “ perhaps even as much as you do. We 
have talked it over together ” 

“ You have !” 

“Yes, this man’s appearance, and all. There’s no rea- 
son why you shouldn’t trust him. because you know how 
he hates a scandal, and he wishes above all things to 


MY CHILD AND L 


231 


avoid one about poor papa’s death. He says the more 
talk there is about it the more we shall all suffer. And 
he advises ” 

‘‘ I shouldn’t take his advice on the matter !” 

You are wrong, mamma. Listen. Burgess’s advice 
is that you tell this man you will have nothing to do with 
him or his information. Above all, don’t let him think 
you’re interested in keeping things quiet.” 

“ But,” whispered I, “ he knows something, — saw !" 

Well, all the more reason why you should appear not 
to care. Look here, mamma.” She planted herself 
down on her knees in front of me, and looked up with 
bright, coaxing eyes. “ If a certain person has really 
been seen in a compromising position, you will not be 
able to hush the matter up for long. If you buy off this 
man, he will only hold his tongue for a little while, and 
then will come to you to be bought over again ; and so 
on, and so on forever. You will be at his mercy as long 
as he lives. Be bold : take the bull by the horns : tell 
him his information doesn’t concern you, and that ho can 
give it where he likes ” 

“ But suppose he takes me at my word?” 

Well, you will write to-night to — a certain person, 
and warn him that everything is known, and that he 
must get out of the country at once. It is the smallest 
punishment he deserves, and then you will be free from 
all further anxiety about him.” 

“ But,” objected I, in astonishment, “you were talking 
to-day as if you liked him, liked him very much I You 
let him almost propose to you ” 

Meg sprang to her feet, with a shudder. 

“Not quite that, mamma,” she said, hastily, in a low 
voice. “ Some day you will understand, some day I will 
tell you — why I was so kind to him. But, indeed,” she 
added, with a sigh, “ I don’t quite understand myself.” 

I also had by this time risen to my feet, and was half 
inclined to take her advice. Seeing this, Meg added one 
more argument. 

“ You know, mamma, if you don’t do what Burgess 
wishes, he will think nothing, when you have bribed the 
man to be silent, of bribing him still higher to speak.” 

This last shot had the desired effect. I had recognised 
that I was in some degree at Burgess’s mercy j and I 


232 


MF CHILD AND L 


could not but acknowledge that the price he demanded 
for clemency — namely, Harry’s exile— was not extrava- 
gantly high. My shabby visitor, therefore, found a 
change for the worse in me when I again joined him in 
the study: I was firmer, colder, and more decided in 
manner. 

“ I am sorry to have kept you so long waiting,” said I, 
keeping my eyes fixed upon the man’s face, in which 
anxiety and avarice were plainly to be seen, “but I 
thought it best to consult the other members of my family 
before giving you an answer.” 

The man kept his eyes upon me with hungry eager- 
ness. 

“ Certainly, certainly, lidy,” he said, as he played 
nervously with the greasy brim of his hat. “ In a matter 
of importance like this ’ere, it was only natural you 
should.” 

“ And we have decided,” I went on, in a manner which 
seemed to him indifferent, “ not to interfere in the matter. 
As for your information ” 

“Yus, my information! The truth, that is, — what I 
saw myself, with my own eyes, on Thursday mornin’ last, 
in this ’ere study wot opens out of this.” And he pointed 
to the inner door with a shaking forefinger. “ My in- 
formation ain’t worth nothin’, ain’t it ? Hot a five-pound 
note to a poor, hard-working man I” 

He had raised his voice almost to a shout, and was 
gesticulating violently under the influence of bitter dis- 
appointment. “ Well, we’ll see about that !” 

I had the sense to see, frightened as I was, that it was 
necessary to take a high hand with the man now that he 
had begun to bully and to threaten. I put my hand 
upon the bell. 

“The footman will show you out,” I said, frigidly. 
“ And if you give us any more trouble we shall call the 
police, and you will then be able to give your ‘ informa- 
tion,’ as you call it, into the best possible hands. Only 
we shall be obliged to tell them of your attempt at black- 
mailing.” 

For a moment at least the man was cowed. He went 
out, muttering to himself, but he was no longer violent 
either in speech or in manner. 

He was scarcely out of the house when I sat down to 


MY CHILD AND L 


233 


write to Harry. I told him that he had been seen on 
the Thursday morning, and that his only chance now 
was to leave the country as quickly as he could. I told 
him, moreover, that it was of no use for him to come to 
me for money, but that, if he would wire to me at once 
by what route he should leave the country, I would 
myself pay his passage-money into the office of the line 
of steamers he would choose to travel by. 

By the time the answer came to this letter, at four 
o’clock on the following day, I was ill in bed, absolutely 
prostrated at last by the anxiety and grief I had suffered. 
The letter was a passionate appeal to me to come and 
see him just once before he started for South America, 
which he said he had chosen as his place of exile because 
the climate was unhealthy and he would be more likely 
there than anywhere else to die soon and relieve e 
of the burden of a child I no longer loved. The letter 
was dated from an address in Wandsworth, to which he 
wished me to come. He had been obliged, he said, to 
leave his expensive rooms in Piccadilly, where he now 
only called to get his letters. 

The tone of misery in which he wrote was so abject that 
I cried while reading his letter, and did not sufficiently 
consider the improbability of his contenting himself with 
lodgings at Wandsworth now that he could get credit on 
the strength of his pretensions to the earldom of Wal- 
linghurst. 

He asked me to telegraph the time I would come and 
see him. So I wired instead to say that I was ill in bed, 
and unable to come at all. 

It was about six o’clock on the evening of that day, 
and I, feeling a little better, was lying down in my tiny 
boudoir, when a servant came in to tell us that a person 
wished to see Miss Margaret on particular business. 
Meg, who was reading aloud to me, looked up suspiciously. 

“ What sort of person, John ?” 

“A woman, ma’am, very respectably dressed. She 
wouldn’t give her name ; she said you wouldn’t know it.” 

Meg glanced at me ; we both guessed whose machina- 
tions were at the bottom of this visit. She rose slowly. 

“ Don't go, Meg,” said I. 

But she insisted, and left the room, while I waited in 
some anxiety for her return. 

20 * 


234 


MY CHILD AND L 


When, in five minutes, she came back, she was on the 
brink of tears. 

‘‘ Well, who was it?’’ I asked, glancing at a sheet of 
note-paper, written upon in a large, sprawling hand, 
which she was holding. 

She answered, tremulously, — 

“ It is Deane Carey’s mother. He is ill, dangerously 
ill — of brain-fever.” 

The girl was more agitated than I had ever before 
seen her. She was looking at the paper in her hands, 
tracing the words on it with tearful anxiety. 

“Deane’s mother T I repeated, more suspicious than 
ever. “ Why, we have never even heard of her ! It is 
some trick, Meg ! I hope you have sent her away ?” 

The girl shook her head. 

“ I’m afraid it’s true,” she whispered. “ As for our 
never having heard of his mother, that is nothing. We 
knew he must have had one !” 

“ But what has she come for?” 

“ She wants me to go back with her to see her son. 
She says he is — is dying, and that he calls out for me in 
his delirium. And — and he wrote this, not knowing 
what he was doing.” 

She handed me the paper in her hand, and I saw that 
it was a letter, a wild, mad letter, scrawled on a sheet 
of note-paper in a shaky hand, large as a child’s, but yet 
not a child’s. These were the words of it : 

“ Darling Meg, darling Meg, — I love you, I love you, 
and I can never see you again. The days are long, and 
the nights, and I see you, and then you fade away — and 
I hear your voice mocking me. [Never to see you again 
— Meg, Meg. [Nothing but disgrace and shame. I think 
of it always — I shall die thinking of it. Good-bye — 
good-bye.” 

While I read it Meg openly sobbed. 

“ Why, child,” said I, in surprise, “ did you care for 
him so much ?” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, I did and I do. Oh, mamma, he is ill, 
dying, and I want to see him ; I didn’t treat him well, 
and I must ask him to forgive me; I must, oh, I 
must I” 


MY CHILD AND L 


235 


The girl was getting quite hysterical, and I was 
scandalized. 

“ VYhy,” I cried, only this afternoon you seemed to 
think of no one but Harry !” 

“Ah, mamma, that was because he talked of no one 
but Deane.” 

I was silent, impressed afresh by this proof of my 
son’s almost diabolical cleverness. It made me still more 
suspicious of the visit of the mysterious woman, and of 
the letter in my hands. 

“ Mamma, mamma,” sobbed Meg, getting behind me 
to put her arms round my neck, “can’t I go? Won’t 
you take me ?” 

I shook my head. 

“ I think it’s a trick,” said I, “ a trick of Harry’s. As 
for this letter, I don’t believe in it.” 

I made a movement as if to throw the scrawl away, 
but Meg snatched it out of my hands. 

“Mamma, how can you?” she cried, indignantly. 
“ Whatever you think, I am quite sure there is no trick 
about this. I can see it is his handwriting, scrawl as it 
is. And you can’t suspect him of deception !” 

But I was not in love with Deane, and I clung to the 
idea that he and Harry had joined in some plot, and 
that this letter was a bait laid for Meg or for me. 

“In any case, even if I knew it were genuine, I could 
not allow you to go, Meg. You must see yourself how 
improper it would be. There is no engagement, no tie 
of any kind between you and Deane Carey ; and there 
never can be any. I will see the woman myself, and 
tell her so. I don’t believe she is Deane’s mother at all. 
She is more likely to be some woman whom they have 
persuaded to help them.” 

I thought, from the way in which Meg received this 
expression of opinion, that she herself was not unwilling 
to agree with me to the extent of believing that there 
was no connection between Deane and the woman. 

“ She is not a lady, I suppose ?” I asked, as I rose to 
prepare to go down-stairs. 

“Ho, mamma,” she answered, promptly. Then she 
added, as if a fresh thought had struck her, “ I will go 
and tell her you are coming.” 

I was not very long in following her down-stairs ; but 


236 


MY CHILD AND L 


before I reached the hall I saw the dining-room door 
open quickly, and a woman come out, closely followed 
by Meg, who was persuading her to stay. 

“ My mother won’t be a minute, I assure you. Here 
she is !” she cried, as she caught sight of me. 

“ Oh, never mind now. I can’t wait. I must get back 
to my poor boy,” answered the woman, as she almost ran 
along the hall towards the front door. 

I stopped short on the staircase, seized by a certain 
vague belief that the voice was one I knew. Then I 
hurried down into the hall, and tried to overtake the 
woman before she left the house. She, however, seemed 
to know that she was being pursued, and, without turn- 
ing her head, or uttering another word in answer to 
Meg’s entreaties that she would stay, she rushed out of 
the house, and slammed the door behind her before the 
scandalized John could come up with her. Meg pulled 
me into the dining-room, looking much puzzled. 

“ When I told her you had got up, and were coming 
down to see her, she said she couldn’t wait,” said Meg. 

“And doesn’t that show you there was something 
wrong about it all?” said I, triumphantly. 

“ Of course I know there is something wrong, — that 
Deane is ill, for one thing,” almost sobbed Meg. “ Mamma, 
nothing you can say will persuade me that that part of 
the woman’s story is not true. This letter tells me. I 
am sure it was written by him, and I am just as sure that 
it was written when he was very ill.” She put her face 
into her hands, in an attitude of despair, for a few 
moments, and then suddenly stood erect with an air of 
determination. 

“ Mamma, if you won’t take me I shall go by myself,” 
she said, almost fiercely. “ I have got the address, and 
I can’t rest without knowing more.” 

“ Sh-sh, child,” said I, hastily. “You can’t go; I 
can’t allow it. What is the address?” 

She told me, and I found that it was the same that 
Harry had given me on the letter I received from him 
that day. This confirmed me in my belief that we were 
being made the victims of another of Harry’s stratagems. 
Meg, however, was not to be convinced. So there was 
no other way of making her give up her project of going 
to Wandsworth than by going there myself. Burgess 


MV CHILD AND L 


237 


was expected home every minute, to dinner ; so I has- 
tened to get out of the house before his return, to avoid 
the necessity of explanations with him. 

I took a cab to Waterloo, the train to Wandsworth, 
and another cab to the address on Harry’s letter. It 
was a small, shabby house, standing by itself by the 
water-side, a dreary enough contrast to the house where 
I had visited Harry before. It was too dark for me to 
see much, but I discerned the face of a woman looking 
out from one of the upper windows as I drove up. 

I got the cabman to knock at the door, and I told him 
to wait, as I thought it just possible I might be glad of 
the presence of a witness to the proceedings. 

A woman opened the door ; but, by the time I had got 
out of the cab and ascended the two steps up to the 
threshold, she had disappeared, and I was left to usher 
myself in. 

No sooner had I stepped through the door-way into a 
gloomy, unlighted passage, than I heard some one shut 
the door behind me, and found myself unceremoniously 
pushed into a little back room, in which, as it was 
unlighted by lamp or gas or candle, I could at first dis- 
tinguish nothing but the fact that it was very ill venti- 
lated. 

The next moment I heard a voice from the door way 
behind me : 

“ Meg ! My darling !” 

Then I felt myself seized in a close embrace. 

“ No, not Meg, it is not Meg,” I cried, as I struggled 
to free myself. 

Harry, for the voice had already told me that it was 
he, drew back, horror-struck. 

‘‘ The d — 1 !” exclaimed he, as he instantly let me go. 

Light the gas at once,” said I, peremptorily. 

And, meekly as a lamb, he obeyed. 


238 


MY CHILD AND L 


CHAPTEE XXXII. 

The back parlor of the shabby little lodging-house, 
looking out on a timber-yard which lay between the 
dwelling and the river, — this was what I saw ; and 
Harry himself, more disappointed and worried than 
ashamed, sitting on the horse-hair couch, staring before 
him, and biting his finger-ends in mortification and rage 
at his mistake. 

“ So this was a trap of yours,” I began, in tones to which 
my disgust lent an unaccustomed firmness, “ to get Meg, 
an innocent young girl, into your power ! Harry, I am 
utterly disgusted with you, ashamed of you, and I will 
never have anything more to do with you. You are 
thoroughly heartless and wicked, and it is my shame, 
not my joy, that 1 have a son at all.” 

‘‘ That’s all very well,” returned he, coolly, still looking 
in front of him, as if puzzling out some intricate j^roblem 
in his mind. “ But all’s fair in love and war.” 

“Love!” echoed I, disdainfully. “You don’t know 
what love means.” 

“ Well,” said he, cynically, “ we won’t argue about that. 
I know what want of money means, and the danger of 
being taken up by the police. Why didn’t you buy off 
the old scoundrel who said he saw me in Keen’s study ? 
Money is no object to you. But perhaps your son’s life 
is no object either?” 

I was silent. Indeed, I was beginning to lose all feel- 
ing for this heartless, selfish creature, except one of un- 
utterable horror at the thought that I bad brought such 
a monster into the world. 

He looked at me at last, frowning. I rose to go. 

“ There is no such thing as buying the silence of a man 
of that kind,” I said, coldly. “ You have put yourself in 
such a position that no one can pity you ; and there is 
only one thing left for you to do, and that is to get out 
of the country as fast as you can. I will help you to do 
that, as I told you. But you cannot expect more from 
me.” 


MY CHILD AND L 


239 


“ But do you consider,” asked Harry, who still wore 
the same ugly and menacing frown, “ that when I have 
‘ got out of the country,’ as you call it, I shall still have 
to live ? I can see how much remembrance of me and 
my necessities you would cherish when once I was out 
of the way, and I must make the best terms I can now.” 
He rose from the sofa, and came towards me in a deter- 
mined manner. “ You want to get rid of me altogether. 
Well, what’s the figure ?” 

“ What do you mean, Harry?” I faltered. 

He answered slowly and deliberately, emphasizing his 
words so that I could not fail to understand. 

“ What sum of money down will you give me, in addition 
to my passage-money, which you have already promised to 
pay, to enable me to keep my head above water in the 
new country wherever you are going to pack me off to, 
until I have had time to look round ?” 

‘‘Harry, I can’t give you anything more than I have 
promised. I am by no means as rich as you think, 
and ” 

“ Oh, rubbish !” cried he, impatiently. “ You are rich 
by comparison with a poor devil like me. How, look 
here, mother: I don’t want to frighten you, but 1 don’t 
mean to let you leave this house till you have stumped 
up. I simply can’t afford to. So you know how things 
stand.” 

“ Do you mean to threaten me ?” asked I, my spirit 
rising in a manner he did not expect. “ Because, if so, 
you will find that I am not quite the simple old woman 
you think me. I have helped you again and again for 
love, but I will never give you a shilling for your threats, 
I promise you !” 

Harry gazed at me reflectively. He was surprised by 
this peep at another side of the character of his indul- 
gent mother ; it upset all his calculations. Presently he 
spoke again, in quite a different tone: 

“ I’m not the wretch you think, mother. I have some 
one else to care for besides myself, — my poor cousin 
Deane, who is lying ill up-stairs at this moment.” 

I felt a sensation of relief on finding that there had 
been, after all, one item of truth in the message sent to 
Meg. 

“ Let me go and see him,” said I. 


240 


MV CHILD AND L 


Well, mother, I should like this business of the money 
settled first.” 

‘‘Do you suppose that I carry large sums of money 
about with me, or that it is merely a matter of writing out 
a cheque ? I assure you that I have had no money at all 
since my husband’s death, and I shall have none until his 
affairs are settled by the lawyers. At present every 
penny I want I have to get through them ; and you may 
judge whether they would let me have any for you. The 
very passage-money I have promised you I shall have 
to borrow through them, and I shall have a difficulty in 
getting that.” 

Harry looked thoughtful Suddenly seizing one of my 
hands, he felt through the glove that I was wearing no 
rings. It was the result of accident, not design on my part ; 
but Harry thought otherwise, and laughed sardonically. 

“ I see you came prepared for my extortions,” said he. 
“ For you have jewelry, at least, if you have no ready 
money. Give me that, and we will cry quits. What 
have you to fear further from me ? In a few days I shall 
be out of England, and it will be too dangerous, with so 
many kind friends ready to do me a good turn, for me 
ever to come back to trouble you !” 

If I had had any jewelry with me, I should have com- 
plied with his request perhaps, but I had none, and 1 
pointed this out to him. 

“ I see that,” said he. “ But write a note to Meg, tell- 
ing her to give you the jewels, and I will send it off at 
once by a messenger I can trust.” 

“ The woman you sent before ?” I asked. “ Who says 
she is Deane’s mother ?” 

“ Who is Deane’s mother,” responded Harry, quickly. 
“ Yes.” 

“ Who is she ? Deane told me his mother died when he 
was born,” said I, full of suspicion of my son’s veracity. 
“ I did not see her face, but her voice seemed to me one 
I had heard before.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Harry, indifferently. “ Anyhow, she’s 
here to nurse her son. And, out of gratitude to me for 
taking care of him, she’s ready to do anything I ask her 
to do. So now the note, please, and after to-night, be- 
yond paying my passage-money, you will have nothing 
more to do with me, as you wish.” 


MY CHILD AND L 


241 


He had already produced writing-paper and a lodging- 
house pen and ink. At first I hesitated to comply with 
his very peremptory demands. At last, however, I began 
to write, with Harry looking over my shoulder. When 
the note was finished, I handed it to him, and said, 
quietly,— 

“ You suppose, of course, that I have been frightened 
into writing this. But you are mistaken. I am not a 
coward. I have sent for a brooch that cost a hundred 
and fifty pounds. It will be my last gift to you. Even 
now I cannot forget that you are mj’- son, and, since you 
must go away, I must feel that you will be safe from star- 
vation, at least, until, as you say, you have time to look 
round in the new country you are going to. I shall not 
forget you, as you suggest. I shall pray for you night 
and morning ; and still hope that a Power higher than 
mine, a Love stronger than mine, may one day move you 
to turn from your evil ways, and make you lead an 
honest life.” 

I was much moved ; and even Harry’s face softened a 
little as, after folding up the note and putting the pen 
again into my band for the direction on the envelope, he 
gave me a kiss on the forehead and told me that I was a 
good soul. 

And now,” said I, rising, “ let me see Deane.” 

Harry’s face clouded a little, but he shrugged his 
shoulders, and led me out of the room and up the narrow 
stairs. I noticed that in the still dark passage some one 
was standing, listening. On the first floor Harry ushered 
me into the front bedroom. It was a sick-room evidently. 
On a poor little bed lay Deane, staring at us, but without 
consciousness of our identity. He seemed to be listening, 
and from time to time he turned his head towards the 
windows, the blinds of which were not yet drawn down. 
Instinctively, as I stood near one of them, I glanced out 
into the street, and I was struck by the circumstance 
that my cab was no longer there : the driver must have 
been paid and sent away. Harry, with my note in his 
hand, was impatient to be gone. 

“ Do you wish to stay with him a little while ?” he 
asked. ‘‘ The poor fellow won’t know you, and you can 
do nothing for him. His mother nurses him.” 

Nevertheless, I said that I would stay, suggesting that 

1, q 21 


242 


MY CHILD AND L 


I should take his mother’s place during her absence. 
Eather reluctantly, as it seemed to me, Harry left me in 
the room, and I heard him go down -stairs. 

I seated myself beside the sick man, who presently 
turned his eyes towards me. 1 seemed to see in them a 
look as if he almost knew who I was, and I put my hand 
out and took one of his in mine. Coming straight from 
the contemplation of Harry’s handsome features spoilt 
by malignant and evil expression, I could not help seeing 
in Deane’s countenance the traces of kindly feelings, of 
honesty of purpose, and of a dozen other qualities which 
I would have had in my own son, but which were in him 
so conspicuously absent. I was touched by the wistful 
look in the poor fellow’s blue eyes. 

“ Don’t you know me, Deane ?” I asked, making my 
voice as gentle and soft as I could. “ Don’t you remem- 
ber Mrs. Keen ?” 

He looked at me, and, after a pause, said, shaking his 
head sadly, — 

“Keen! Yes, that is her name. But they call her 
Meg. She won’t come ; no, she won’t come !” 

I began to cry, and to wish almost that 1 had let Meg 
accompany me. There was something very touching in 
the simply expressed despair of this poor fellow, who, 
without any fault of his own except that of an unwaver- 
ing attachment to his brilliant but unprincipled cousin, 
seemed always destined to share the burdens of Harry’s 
bad actions. 

“ Do you want to see her so badly, then ?” I asked. 

He seemed to understand me, but for answer the poor 
fellow only sighed. I was sorry for him, from. the bottom 
of my heart. 

“ You have your mother with you now,” I suggested, 
wondering whether he would understand. 

He frowned, and shook his head. 

“ Ko, no,” he said, slowly, “ my mother is dead, dead.” 

I had left my hand in his, and presently he raised it 
to his face, and lay with his cheek against it, closing his 
eyes. A peaceful expression, strongly in contrast with 
the wistful watchfulness I had noticed in his countenance 
when I came in, now came gradually over his features; 
and, before I had sat beside him many minutes, he fell 
asleep. 


MV CHILD AND L 


243 


I glanced round the room. It was small, shabby, and 
meagrely furni.shed, just an unattractive lodging in an 
unattractive suburb. How had he got there? Why 
had this particularly uninviting house been chosen by 
the cousins? Where was the landlady? Where were 
the other inmates ? 

As I asked myself these questions, I became aware of 
sounds coming up from the passage below, and growing 
every moment louder. An altercation of some sort was 
going on, to which at first, absorbed in my own thoughts, 
I paid little heed. But presently the sounds grew louder^ 
until I thought I distinguished the voice of the woman 
who had called at Kerr Street that afternoon to see Meg. 
For a long time it was only her voice that I could hear ; 
but presently, as the dispute in which she was engaged 
grew louder, I discerned that the second disputant was a 
man. 

Was it Harry ? Was the woman, trusty messenger as 
he had declared her to be, refusing to do his bidding and 
to return to Kerr Street with the note I had written ? 

As I asked myself this question, something more than 
her voice reached me : I heard her very words : 

“ Ko, I’ll not go. I’ve done your bidding time and 
again, and little thanks I’ve got for it. Why should I 
go trapesing over the town with this fine lady’s notes, 
and leave her to steal away the heart of my own son, my 
own child ? Why should I, I say !” 

“Hush! Sh-sh!” said, peremptorily, a voice which 
I now knew to be Harry’s. And he added something in 
tones too low for me to hear. 

The woman resumed : indeed, her share of the con- 
versation sounded almost like a monologue, so greatly 
did her voice overpower that of her companion : 

“ She’s always stood in my way, the hussy, and I'm 
not going to give way to her now. Find somebody else 
to take your notes : 1 stop here as long as she stops, and 
so that’s flat.” 

There was a pause, and then I heard footsteps on the 
stairs. A door was burst open, that of the room adjoin- 
ing the sick-room, and then came the sound of violent 
sobbing. 

The woman was really Deane’s mother, then, and she 
was jealous of me, having evidently heard of the liking 


244 


MY CHILD AND L 


he had always expressed for me. I felt sorry for the 
poor creature. It was evident from her voice that she 
was a woman of no refinement, and I could understand 
that if, as seemed evident, he had been kept all these 
years in ignorance of her very existence, the discovery 
that his own mother was not a lady, but a coarse, loud- 
voiced woman, of low birth and rough manners, must 
have jarred on the poor lad and rendered it difficult for 
him to return the love she evidently felt for him. I had 
experienced too much of the grievous disappointment 
a mother may feel in her own child not to sympathize 
with her heartily. So, gently withdrawing my hand 
from the pillow of the sick man, I rose, left the room, 
and knocked softly at the door of the next. 

‘‘Who is it?” asked the woman’s voice, sharply. 

“ It is I, Mrs. Keen. May I come in ? May I speak 
to you a moment ?” I asked, gently. 

I heard her bounce across the room to the door. 

“ Yes, you may see me, you may speak to me, for all 
he says !” she cried, defiantly. 

And, bursting open the door, she appeared, and stood 
face to face with me, holding a candle above her head to 
facilitate my recognition of her. 

I uttered a cry. 

For, in the coarse features, which had now lost every 
trace of their old beauty, in the defiant expression, in 
the gesture, in the attitude, I recognised my old rival, 
the woman whom I had always believed to be Harry 
Dare’s real wife. 


CHAPTEE XXXIII. 

As I stood looking at this woman, whom for so many 
years I had believed to be Harry Dare’s wife, all the 
events of my youth and of my first marriage passed 
in review before my mind. And I felt sorry for her. 
There seemed to be the stamp of failure, of disappoint- 
ment on her worn features, on her figure, once so im- 
posing, bent and aged before her time. 

And then a spasm of terror seized me. What had I 


MF CHILD AND L 


245 


not still to learn concerning the relations between tnis 
woman and me ? 1 had known that she had a daughter; 
but I had heard never a word of the existence of a son. 
Was she really Deane’s mother? I had overheard her 
using words to Harry which certainly implied that she 
was; but, then, was she altogether worthy of belief? 

She had not uttered a word when she appeared at the 
door, and I, on my side, found it equally difficult to make 
conversation for her. Eivals we were, as we had always 
been. Indeed, if it were true that Deane was her son, 
the rivalry would be more acute than ever; for the 
question of an earldom for her son or for mine hung 
upon Harry Dare’s marriage with the one or the other 
of us. 

I held out my hand. 

‘‘ You don’t bear me any ill-will, I hope ?” said I. “ I 
came here to see my son, not to be a rival to you with 
yours.” 

She looked at me with tightened lips, and would not 
touch my offered hand. 

“Oh, you were always soft-spoken, trust you for that!” 
she cried, in a bitter tone. “ That’s what first helped 
you to take Harry Dare away from me.” 

I despaired of getting anything like the truth out of 
her on any point ; still I ventured to say, “ I never knew 
that you had a son, but they told me you had a little 
girl. Was it true ?” 

“Yes,” answered Nellie, sullenly, “I had a girl, but 
she died. When Harry Dare left me for you I had two 
children, a boy and a girl. But the boy was not with 
me ; Lady Stephana had taken him.” 

“And she called him Deane Carey? And it is he who 
is lying ill in the next room ?” 

“ Yes.” 

There was a pause. Then I asked, “Where is Harry?” 

“ Gone to your house, with a note. He wanted me to 
take it, but 1 wouldn’t.” 

1 was much relieved, since I could now get away 
without interference. I should have liked to see poor 
Deane for a few minutes more, but I was afraid of 
arousing his mother’s jealousy afresh ; so I resisted the 
temptation, and, taking a formal leave of Nellie, I left 
the house and returned home. 

21 * 


246 


MY CHILD AND L 


Being anxious to reach Kerr Street before Harry, I 
went by a hansom the whole way. Nevertheless, it was 
nearly midnight when I arrived. Late as it was, how- 
ever, 1 saw, as I drove up to the door, the shambling, 
shabby figure of Michael Fish, the care-taker, holding 
on to the area railings of the opposite house. My heart 
leapt up. Scoundrel that he was, whenever danger came 
near to Harry I felt the mother’s longing to protect her 
child as keenly as ever. I jumped quickly out of the 
hansom, and rang the bell. 

The door was opened, not by one of the servants, but 
by Burgess Falconer. 

I was frightened. Burgess had developed into a tyrant 
since his step-father’s death. He had been not un- 
naturally irritated by the discovery that Mr. Keen had 
used the power given him under his first wife’s marriage 
settlement, of leaving the interest of her fortune to Meg 
for her life ; and, as he blamed me more than Meg for 
this, we were by no means on the best of terms. 

“Eeally, Mrs. Keen, I think it would be better if you 
were to pay your calls at more reasonable hours,” he 
began, in a surly tone. 

“I really couldn’t help it, Burgess,” said I, humbly. 
“ I was sent for in a hurry, to see a person who was ill — 
and I ” 

“111! Is it true, then? Is Deane ready very ill?” 
cried a heart-broken voice. 

And Meg, who had slipped down the stairs in her 
dressing-gown, came up to us, her little mobile face dis- 
torted and quivering with feeling. 

“Shut up, Meg,” said Burgess, shortly. “We have 
enough snivelling over one of those miserable Careys, 
without your going crazy over the other.” 

But Meg stood up valiantly in Deane’s cause, as was 
to be expected of her. 

“ There’s nothing in common between the two of them 
except the name,” she said, with spirit, “ and it’s a shame 
to speak of them in the same breath.” 

“ I’m sure I dont want to speak of them at all,” said 
he ; “ but one seems to hear of nothing else. But mind, 
mamma, I won’t have that fellow Harry Carey about 
the place again. I’ve no proofs, certainly, that he had 
a hand in the poor governor’s death. But I have sus- 


MY CHILD AND I 


247 


picions as strong as they make ’em ; and, if I once get 
hold of a little bit of evidence to bear them out, I’ll put 
a rope round that young man’s neck, as sure as I’m a 
living man.” 

Knowing that Harry himself might at any moment 
knock at the door, and that Michael Fish was on the 
watch outside, I could scarcely summon voice enough to 
answer him. 

He seemed to have an idea that the night’s events 
were not over, for he would not go up-stairs to bed, as he 
usually did at an early hour when he spent an evening 
at home. Although I was afraid that by staying down- 
stairs myself I should excite his suspicions, I went into 
the dining-room with Meg, telling her I wished to speak 
to her. Burgess watched us into the room, and retired, 
not up stairs to his own room, but to the study at the 
end of the passage. 

I peeped behind the blinds into the street. Michael 
Fish had left his post on the other side of the road, and 
had taken up a position close to our door-steps. 

“What’s the matter, mamma?” asked Meg. “Are 
you expecting any one ?” 

Glancing apprehensively at the door, I whispered, 
“ Harry.” 

Meg started. 

“ Mamma, why don’t you forbid him to come ? He is 
running great risks, and so are you. You ought to get 
rid of him, you must, for his sake as well as your own.” 

I laughed, with a shiver. 

“ It’s not so easy,” said L 

“ Perhaps it would be easier, mamma, if you were in 
earnest about wishing it,” said she. 

“ Heaven knows I am !” 

And, giving way for the first time that evening, I 
burst into tears. 

For a long time it was in vain that Meg tried to soothe 
me, to quiet me. And at last it was only the fear that I 
should miss the person I was watching for that caused 
me to dry my tears. 

It was by a change in the attitude of the hitherto 
motionless figure by the railings outside that we first 
had an intimation that Harry was approaching. The 
old man raised his stooping head, and peered into the 


248 


MY CHILD AND L 


darkness of the street like some ravenous night-bird on 
the look-out for its prey. Making a gesture to Meg to 
keep silence, I crossed the room very softly, opened the 
dining-room door, and stole along the hall towards the 
front entrance. Listening intently for some sound from 
the study, I could hear none, and I flattered myself with 
the hope that Burgess would not hear me. With care- 
ful Angers I pulled back the bolts of the front door, 
which Burgess himself had somewhat ostentatiously 
fastened, and waited, with my hand on the latch, for 
Harry’s footsteps. 

There was no hope, I knew, that he would escape the 
vigilance of Michael Fish. But I thought it unlikely 
that the care-taker would do more that night than note 
this fresh visit on the part of Harry. It was not long 
before I heard the footsteps I was waiting for. There 
was a jauntiness, a lightness of foot about Harry by 
which I alway knew his step from any other. My heart 
leapt up when 1 heard his voice outside, cheery and 
careless as usual. He was evidently addressing Michael 
Fish. 

“Hallo, old chap,” cried he, “find the pavements un- 
even about here? Ho friend to lean on but the rail- 
ings ?” he asked, as he ran lightly up the steps. 

By the time he reached the top I was holding the door 
open. With an emphatic gesture to him to be very 
quiet, I let him in, and softly closed the door behind him. 
With the same elaborate gestures of warning, I led him 
towards the dining-room. But at the door I whispered 
in his ear these words : 

“My step-daughter is in there. I absolutely forbid 
you to speak to her. Your conduct to-night has proved 
that you are not fit to do so.” 

Harry, who had profited by my warning to make no 
noise, shrugged his shoulders with an easy smile. Ho 
sooner had we got inside than, without the slightest re- 
gard to my injunction, he held out his hand to Meg with 
the most charming appearance of delight at the meeting. 
But this was more than I, after my visit to Wandsworth, 
was in the humour to put up with. I came- between 
them, and swept their hands apart before they could 
touch. 

“ Ho, Harry \ no, Meg. This is the last time you will 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


249 


ever meet, the last time that you, Harry, will come into 
this house.” 

“ All right, mother,” said Harry, with an air of great 
nonchalance, as he threw himself into a chair. “ You 
are prepared, I suppose, now that I’m here, to redeem 
your promise and give me the brooch you spoke of.” 

As he spoke, he took out of his pocket, and waved 
lightly in the air, the note I had written to Meg. Then 
he handed it to her, with a bow and an affectation of 
carefully avoiding her fingers as he did so. 

“ Am I to open it, mamma ?” said Meg. 

I made a sign of the head of assent. But when she 
had read it, her little face flushed with anger. 

Ho,” she said, decidedly, “ I shall not do it. You tell 
me in this note to give up a valuable brooch, one that 
my father gave to you, to Mr. Carey. This note was 
meant to arrive, I suppose, before your return,” she com 
tinned, turning to me. “ Well, if it had come into my 
hands during your absence, I should have taken it to 
Burgess.” 

Both Harry and I looked at her in astonishment and 
some dismay. We were not prepared for this outburst 
of spirit, in which, however, I found something to 
admire. She went on : 

‘‘ Of course, now you are here, you must do as you 
please. But I tell you frankly, mamma, that, for your 
own protection, Burgess will hear about it in the morn- 
ing.” 

I started, and I felt that I turned cold with alarm, not 
at the girl’s words, but at certain sounds which reached 
my ears from the hall outside. Some one was moving 
about there. With one of my quick revulsions of feeling 
where Harry was concerned, I sprang across the room 
to the door, and listened. 

At that moment there was a single knock, scarcely 
more than a tap, at the front door. My heart sank 
within me. With a rapid gesture to Meg and to Harry 
to imply that they were to be quiet, I slipped out of the 
room into the hall. I saw no one ; and with quick steps 
I went on tiptoe to the front door, and opened it. 

As I expected, I found myself face to face with 
Michael Fish. He no longer wore the cringing air which 
had distinguished him on his last visit, nor the appear- 


250 


MY CHILD AND I 


ance of humble expectancy which T had noticed in him 
that very evening. He had cocked his hat in a jaunty 
manner, and he had a cunning leer of triumphant malice 
in his face. 

“ Beg pardon, lidy,” he began, in his thick voice, “ for 
troubluig you so late. But I saw a gentleman go in here 
just now, a gentleman 1 take a particular interest in. So 
do you, I should judge, ma’am, by your letting him in 
yourself at this time o’ night.” 

I was debating rapidly with myself whether I should 
shut the door in the man’s face, whether I should parley 
with him, or whether I should put him off until the 
mornir)g, when the sound of a closing door at the other 
end of the hall caused me to make up tny mind rapidly. 
Attempting to close the door upon him, I said, quickly, — 

“ I can’t speak to you now : you had better call and 
see me in the morning if you have anything to say.” 

I was too late. With a movement more rapid than I 
should have thought the old rascal capable of, he thrust 
his foot inside the door so that 1 could not shut it, and, 
raising his voice suddenly to a much higher pitch, he 
cried out, — 

“Very sorry, ma’am, but I have something to say 
which I should like to say to-night. And p’raps the 
gentleman behind there,” and he nodded in a direction 
beyond me, “ would like to hear it, too.” 

1 made one more ineffectual effort to force him to 
withdraw his foot. In the mean time Burgess, with a 
little laugh, had come up to us. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, sharply. 

I tried to speak, but Fish was too quick for me. 

“ The matter is, sir,” said he, lowering his tones a little, 
“ that there’s a gent gone in here to-night that I saw, in 
very queer circumstances, on the day Mr. Keen died.” 

As the man uttered the fatal word, I leaned back 
against the wall, so overpowered by my fears and my 
feelings that I was powerless to utter a word or to make 
a movement. 

Burgess listened very quietly. 

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” he drawled out, as if the news 
had no interest for him. “And pray why didn’t you 
mention this before?” 

“ I did mention it, sir, to the lidy ’ere. But she didn’t 


MY CHILD AND L 


251 


think it worth listenin’ to, seemingly, the way her hus- 
band came by his death !” 

And the man looked at me malignantly. I took heart 
and spoke. 

“ It is merely an attempt to black- mail,” I said, coolly j 
“ otherwise you may be sure we should have heard some- 
thing of this at the inquest. This man came to me and 
asked me to bribe him for his information. I preferred 
to have nothing to do with him, and so I should think 
would you.” 

“ That depends,” said Burgess, shortly. 

‘‘ At any rate,” said I, hastily, beginning to fear above 
all things that this man should see Harry, in the pres- 
ence of Burgess, “ this matter, if it is worth discussing, 
had better be discussed in the morning. Don’t you 
think so?” 

“ Wait a minute,” said Burgess, in a still quieter, more 
drawling tone than before. “We have at hand a very 
good method of testing the value of this gentleman’s 
evidence. Come this way, please.” 

And he led the man, who followed close at his heels, 
along the hall and into the dining-room. I was not far 
behind. So near was I, indeed, when they entered the 
room, that I was in time to see Harry turn quickly from 
Meg, to whom he was evidently pleading with all the 
eloquence in his power, and stare in astonishment at 
Burgess and his shabby companion. 

Without another word from Burgess, Fish made a few 
rapid steps forward, and, leaning against the table, stared 
full into Harry’s face. 

There was a pause, terrible to me, at least. Then 
Harry, absolutely in the dark as to the meaning of this 
sudden intrusion, put his hand up to his head and passed 
it through his curly hair with a favourite gesture of his. 

At this, Michael Fish brought his fist down sharply 
upon the table, with a cry which was almost a yell. 

“ There, there !” he cried, “ that’s just what I saw you 
do, with the pistol still in your hand, when you had just 
shot Mr, Keen .'” 


252 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


CHAPTEE XXXIV. 

There was a moment’s dead silence. Then I, looking 
intently at Harry, saw his cheeks become livid and his 
jaw drop. 

It was an awful experience for each one of us, even 
for Burgess, who was evidently taken aback by the suc- 
cess of his own experiment. Meg uttered a little cry, 
and put her hands before her eyes. Fish, however, con- 
tinued to stare at his victim, pointing at him a grimy 
finger. 

“ Yes, you’re the man that did it. I saw it all. You 
talked to him angry-like ; you were white and he was 
red ; and he bounced up from his chair, and walked up and 
down the room, while you stood still by the door there, 
almost behind the screen, so I couldn’t see you well j and 
you watched him. And presently I saw something in 
your hand, and all of a sudden Mr. Keen started-like, 
and staggered against a chair, and fell down. And you 
waited a minute, and then you came forward, and you bent 
down to look at him. And I saw the thing in your hand, 
a pistol it was, or a revolver, I couldn’t rightly say which. 
And then you stood up, and you run your hand through 
your hair, just like you did just now, and you stood so 
for a few minutes. Then you stooped down again over 
him ; and, when you got up again, I saw there was a 
bunch of keys in your hand. And you unlocked the 
drawers of the writing-table, and you looked through 
the papers, throwing them about. And then you went 
to the side of the room where I couldn’t see you, and 
you were there what seemed a long time, and when I 
saw you again you had a cash-box in your hands, and 
you opened it, an’ you took out some notes and some 
gold. And you put the notes back in the cash-box, and 
the gold into your pockets.” 

At this point in the man’s narrative, there was a move- 
ment among his hearers. We all knew that Mr. Keen’s 
cash-box usually did contain notes and gold, and that 
after the murder only notes had been found in it. As 


MY CHILD AND L 


253 


for Harry, he had recovered his ease of manner, and 
was sitting on the arm of a chair, with his knees crossed, 
and his face wearing an expression of amiable stupefac- 
tion, as if the absurdity of the tale he was listening to 
were too great for belief. Michael Fish, however, ap- 
parently paying little attention to anybody in the room 
but Harry, upon whom he kept his eyes fixed, went 
cumbrously on : 

“ Then I saw you bring out a paper, a large paper ; 
an you read it, an^ then you tore it up, an’ you went 
again out of my sight for a bit ; and presently you came 
back in a hurry, looking at the door, and I saw you 
move the body along the floor, an’ draw the screen in 
front of it ; an’ then you threw some things on the floor, 
and then you went to the door, and presently I saw 
this lady,” and the man turned to me, “come in with 
you.’* 

I had not dared to interrupt the man, while Harry had 
behaved as if he had no wish to do so. At this point, 
however, he suddenly broke in with a laugh. It was 
such an inappropriate manifestation, in the midst of the 
horror we were all feeling, that it sent a shock through 
us. 

“ And pray, where were you, to see all this ?” asked 
Harry, finding it prudent to interfere before the man 
came to that part of his narrative which the memories 
of all present could confirm. 

“ I was cleaning the windows of the first floor back. 
No. 86 Warre Street, so I could see right down into the 
study of this house,” replied Fish, promptly. 

“ Well, you seem to have seen a good deal that did not 
take place, as far as I am concerned,” retorted Harry, 
coolly. “I don’t dispute that all you say you saw 
actually happened. You certainly seem to be speaking 
from memory, and not inventing. I don’t suppose you 
are capable of that, indeed. All I dispute is that you 
saw me. That you could not have done, because I was 
not there. And 1 warn you that, if you go about saying 
that it was I you saw, I shall take proceedings against 
you, for, though it isn’t very likely that you will find 
any decent people to believe your story, I don’t choose to 
have such tales told about me, even by the scum of 
the slums.” 


22 


254 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


And, rising without any haste from his seat, Harry 
came to me, kissed me affectionately on both cheeks, and, 
without taking any notice of Burgess, or of Meg, who 
had carefully turned her head away to avoid his fare- 
well, he left the room. 

He thought it prudent, however, to quicken his steps 
as soon as he was out of our sight, for the dining-room 
door had scarcely closed behind him when we heard the 
front door slam. 

I saw, by the look on Burgess’s face, that he let Harry 
go, as a cat lets a mouse run a little way, sure that he 
could pounce upon him with ease in a very short time. 
He got up from his chair, and beckoned Fish out of the 
room. Meg and 1, who crept softly up-stairs to bed a few 
minutes later, heard Burgess let the man out of the 
house about half an hour afterwards. 

It struck me as almost a tragic circumstance that by 
the first post on the following morning I received a letter 
from Mr. Boyle, the solicitor of the late Lord Walling- 
hurst and now Harry’s own adviser, stating that in 
answer to his letter to Lady Stephana he had received a 
cablegram from her saying that she was starting for 
England and would see him at once upon her arrival in 
London. Mr. Boyle went on to say that my son had 
already applied to him for monetary advances, but that 
he had not complied with his requests, except to a very 
small extent, thinking it better to wait until matters 
were in a more forward state. But, the cautious lawyer 
added, if I cared to become security for lyiy son (a course 
which I supposed had been suggested by Harry himself), 
of course there would be no difficulty in letting the 
young gentleman have what money in reason he wanted 
for his immediate needs. 

This letter, which acknowledged my son’s pretensions 
to a magnificent position at the very time when a war- 
rant at any moment might be issued for his arrest, 
seemed to me full of the irony of fate. I did not answer 
it, as it was impossible to do so without informing him 
of the dreadful situation to which Harry had brought 
himself 

1 thought that Harry would, after the warning he had 
received of his danger on the previous night, have dis- 
cretion enough to keep out of the way until he left the 


MV CHILD AND 1. 


255 


country, a necessity which became every day more ap- 
parent. Meg agreed with me in thinking this was the 
only thing he could do. She told me that, when left 
alone with her the night before while I went to the front 
door, Harry had made the fullest use of his brief oppor- 
tunity to inform her that his love for her was making 
him desperate, and to implore her not to believe all the 
ill that was said of him, but to marry him off hand, in 
which case he said she would have the satisfaction of 
seeing him reform completely under her gentle influence. 
Meg, however, had declined to undertake the herculean 
task. 

I was almost beyond being amazed by any fresh proof 
of my son’s audacity, but I was truly thankful that Meg’s 
heart was in no danger of being deeply touched by him. 
The girl thought that she had seen the last of her erratic 
suitor, but that very day she was brought again into 
most unexpected contact with him. 

Since the day of the eventful launch party up the 
river, an intimacy had sprung up between Meg on the 
one side and the Everett girls on the other. They were, 
indeed, almost the only people she saw during these first 
days of our mourning. The eldest of the girls, Ethel, 
her particular friend, had conceived for Harry an affec- 
tion of which she was rather proud than otherwise. She 
was a very tall, plain, angular girl, who would almost 
certainly have been left severely alone by her masculine 
acquaintances if it had not been well known that she 
would be amply dowered. 

On this particular day Meg, who had always laughed 
at her friend’s infatuation, thought she would call upon 
her and perhaps cure her by an account of Harry’s 
obviously mercenary proposal to herself. 

Arriving about tea-time, Meg was told that Miss Ethel 
was engaged at the moment ; and she was shown into 
the drawing-room, where the two other unmarried sisters 
were sitting. 

“What is Ethel doing?” asked Meg. “I have some- 
thing most important to tell her.” 

The girls laughed. 

“I think,” said Daisy, “that she will have something 
important to tell you. At least she has been for the last 
hour and a half in the conservatory, with an exceedingly 


256 


MY CHILD AND L 


interesting companion ; and the latest news of the young 
couple is that they have sent for mamma.” 

“ A proposal ! Ethel I” exclaimed Meg, in astonishment. 
“ Why, she has kept the matter very quiet. I haven’t 
the least notion who the happy man can be.” 

“ Don’t tell, Daisy,” cried Amy, running between them ; 
“ make her guess. Or, better still, let her wait till the 
betrothed couple make their triumphant entry.” 

But Meg, too impatient to wait, begged that they 
would at least acknowledge it if she made a correct guess 
at the lover’s name. But, though they all agreed to this, 
she was unsuccessful in naming the right man, and it was 
not until the entrance of Ethel and her fiance that her 
curiosity was satisfied. 

Ethel herself came in first, blushing and radiant. Meg 
went up to her, laughing archly, and whispered, — 

“ I congratulate you, my dear. And I’m dying with 
curiosity. The girls won’t tell me who it is. What have 
you done with him ?” 

“ He’s behind — in the hall — with mamma.” 

At that moment a well-known voice caused Meg to 
start. Ethel laughed. 

“Do you begin to know now ?” asked she, triumph- 
antly. 

But Meg had grow quite white. Clasping her hands, 
she said, in a frightened whisper, “ Oh, no ; oh, no ! Im- 
possible, it is impossible I” 

Ethel conceived that she was jealous, and was sorry 
for her disappointed friend. She threw her arms round 
Meg, and kissed her consolingly. 

“ You have so many admirers,” she whispered ; “ don’t 
grudge me my solitary one ! And when 1 love him so I 
Oh, you don’t know how I love him !” 

But poor Meg was struck with terror. She wanted to 
escape out of the house, to consult me as to what she 
should do, before Harry should see her. This, how- 
ever, was impossible : in another moment he was in the 
room. 

He was very little disconcerted by the sight of her, 
shook hands in his usual airy manner, and found an op- 
portunity to whisper to her an entreaty not to “ spoil 
sport.” Meg felt paralyzed. She sat silently sipping tea, 
attracting every one’s attention by her pallor and her 


MY CHILD AND L 


257 


unusual taciturnity. When at last she rose to go, she 
saw that Ethel was olfended, and that her behaviour had 
naturally enough been misinterpreted. Still, Ethel said, 
in a confidential whisper, as Meg went out, — 

“ So sorry, dear, about your mourning ! I should have 
liked you to be one of my bridesmaids. But Harry 
wants it to be so soon, so dreadfully soon !” 

“ Yes, dear, yes,” answered Meg, hurriedly. And she 
went down the steps with the uncomfortable feeling that 
she had hurt the feelings of her friend, for whom, how- 
ever, she knew that there was a much worse disappoint- 
ment in store. 

Meg came straight to me on her return home, and told 
me the whole story. I was stupefied by this fresh piece 
of audacity. That very evening I went round to Mrs. 
Everett, whom I found in a state of great pride and de- 
light over her daughter’s engagement to an earl. For I 
need scarcely say that Harry had had the wit to make 
the most of his pretensions. It was a terrible moment 
for a mother, to have to bring an indictment against her 
son. But I was bound in honour not to let the girl be 
hurried into marriage with a man who might at any 
moment be arrested for murder. I did not tell Mrs. 
Everett this ; I told her only that Harry had got into a 
scrape, from which he must clear himself before he could 
honourably propose to any girl. It was not easy to con- 
vince the disappointed mother without giving further 
details ; but my persistency at last carried the day, so 
that before I left the house she had promised not to sanc- 
tion any engagement between the young people until she 
heard from me further. 

But both Meg and I had reason to fear that our pre- 
cautions would be no match for Harry’s strategy. On 
the following day Meg received a passionate letter from 
Ethel, evidently inspired by Harry, reproaching her for 
the infamous means she had taken to try to separate 
her from her fiance^ and assuring her that her malicious 
efforts would be useless in the end. 

Two days later, I was distressed but not surprised to 
hear from Mrs. Everett to the effect that Ethel had dis- 
appeared. The note containing this intelligence had 
hardly reached me when the poor mother herself fol- 
lowed. Could I, she implored, tell her where to find my 
r 22 * 


258 


MV CHILD AND L 


son ? I at once put on my bonnet and went with her to 
the house at Wandsworth, although, as I told her, I had 
not much hope that he would have remained where he 
could be so easily found. 

As I expected, we were told by the landlady, a deaf 
old woman whom I had not previously seen, that all 
three of her lodgers had left, and that she did not know 
where they had gone to. W e then went to the old place 
oif Piccadilly w^here I had first visited my son. Here 
again we could get no tidings of him. Mrs. Everett then 
proposed to set a detective on the track of her daughter ; 
but I, for obvious reasons, was against this extreme 
course. 

I accompanied her, however, to her husband’s office in 
the City, where she got little consolation ; for Mr. Everett 
had opposed the match from the first, and professed 
to be in no wise astonished at the turn the affair had 
taken. 

“Of course he’ll marry her. You may make your 
mind easy about that. And he’ll find he’s got a poor 
wife where he thought he’d got a rich one,” he added, 
with a chuckle. “ And equally of course he’ll treat her 
badly. But that’s no more than the fool of a girl 
deserves.” 

And the old merchant, with an apology to me for his 
bluntness, escorted us out in extreme unconcern. 

It was late when Mrs. Everett, still without any news 
of her runaway daughter, reached her home, I, by her 
entreaty, still accompanying her. We found Meg with 
Daisy and Amy, awaiting my return. As it was near 
dinner-time, and Mr. Everett had told his wife not to 
expect him home till late, Meg and I were persuaded to 
stay and dine with the disconsolate ladies of the famil}’. 
We had scarcely sat down when we heard a ring and a 
loud knock at the door. Mrs. Everett sprang up in 
excitement, hoping for tidings of her daughter. We 
tried to calm her, but, even while we were speaking, the 
dining-room door burst open, and Ethel rushed in, pale, 
haggard, and breathless. 

“ Oh, mamma, mamma,” she cried, as she threw her- 
self into her mother’s arms ; “ oh. I’m so glad to be home 
again, and safe with you !” 

Her mother burst into tears and sobs. 


MV CHILD AND L 


259 


“ How did you get away ? Where is the wretch who 
persuaded you to go ?” cried she. 

“ I don’t know where he is now,” answered Ethel, with 
a shudder. “ They came for him, mamma, with a war- 
rant for his arrest — for — for murder !” 

Mrs. Everett almost shrieked. I, who heard this, felt 
as if turned to stone. Ethel went on : 

“ I don’t know what I should have done, mamma, if it 
hadn’t been for the kindness of Mr. Carey ” 

“ Mr. Carey !” echoed her mother, in astonishment. 

^‘Yes. Not Harry Carey, but his cousin. Where is 
he? He brought me home, when I was too much 
ashamed to want to come.” 

Some of us went out into the hall, where we found 
poor Deane, white and emaciated from recent illness, 
waiting for an opportunity of offering some explanation 
to Mrs. Everett. He turned first red and then white 
again on seeing me. As for Meg, peeping out from 
behind my shoulder, she uttered a cry when she saw how 
ill he still looked. 

“ Harry ?” I whispered, faintly ; is he safe ?” 

“ For the present he is,” whispered Deane back, “but 
— the police are looking for him, and they have a war- 
rant.” 


CHAPTEK XXXY. 

The tidings that there was really a warrant out at 
last for my son’s arrest were as terrible to me, at the 
moment of hearing them, as if he had been the most 
tender and dutiful of children. I stood in the hall, with 
the tears raining down my cheeks, listening to the short 
account Deane had to give me of Harry’s narrow escape. 

Mrs. Everett, herself a loving mother, came gently 
behind me, put her hands about me, and led me to the 
drawing-room, beckoning to Deane to follow me in. 

“ You have a lot to talk about,” she whispered. “No 
one will disturb you in there.” She paused a moment ; 
and then, as Deane was going to pass her, she took his 
hand in hers, and said, “ Why are you and your cousin 


MY CHILD AND L 


260 

so different ? And why isn’t it you, and not he, who 
want to marry one of my girls ?” 

“ I’m too poor to marry any one,” said Deane. As 
for offering myself to one of your daughters, Mrs. 
Everett, I should as soon think of kneeling at the feet 
of a princess.” 

“Ah,” she said, there is another reason than your 
modesty, I think !” 

And she intimated, by a backward glance towards the 
spot where Meg had stood a moment before, her sus- 
picions as to the real bent of his affections. But Deane, 
although he blushed deeply, became on the instant very 
stiff. 

“ I have always,” said he, quickly, “ made up my mind 
that a bachelor’s life is the only one for a sensible man.” 

“And you have never seen any woman attractive 
enough to induce you to alter your opinion ?” 

“ No !” answered Deane, wdth unnecessary vehemence. 

Mrs. Everett smiled and shook her head. 

“Well, it is a pity,” she said. “For some girl would 
have got a very good husband.” 

And she went out of the drawing-room, leaving Deane 
and me together. 

I was still in tears : indeed, the reason Mrs. Everett 
had detained Deane for this short conversation was 
chiefly, as I felt sure, to give me an opportunity of re- 
covering some of my composure. I made a strong effort 
to be calmer when I found myself alone with the young 
fellow. 

“Well,” I began, tremulously, “have you anything 
else to tell me ?” 

“Not much, Mrs. Keen,” he replied, in a tone full of 
respectful and tender sympathy which almost destroyed 
my hard-won equanimity. “Harry had engaged fresh 
lodgings, thinking those we were in at Wandsworth were 
perhaps no longer safe.” 

“We — we?” I interrupted, rather sharply. “But 
where was the necessity for your going too? Why 
must you go wherever he did ?” 

I was irritated rather than touched to find so much 
devotion, so much steadfastness — in the wrong man ! 
Deane hesitated, and looked for a moment rather foolish. 

“ Indeed, I find it hard to answer that,” he said at last, 


MY CHILD AND /. 


2&1 


quite apologeticall3^ “ I can only say this : when you 
have been brought up with another fellow, when you 
become used to him and to his ways, especially when he 
is a lively, bright, good-humoured fellow like Harry, it 
is the natural thing to stick to him as long as he wants 
you ; and it would be a very unnatural thing to throw 
him over when he’s down on his luck.” 

“.But it’s his own fault!” said I, tartly. 

“ Partly, of course, it is. But, then, he’s always been 
spoilt.” 

I was struck by his straightforward and amazing 
loyalty. 

“ Do you know,” said I, in a whisper, “ what the war- 
rant is out against him for?” 

Deane assented by a sign with the head. 

“ And do you believe — he — he ” 

The young fellow did not force me to finish. 

“ I hope not,” he said, in a voice little louder than my 
own. “ But at any rate ” 

I leaned forward towards him, trembling. 

“ You would stick to him still ?” 

“ Of course I would ; of course I will.” 

I burst into tears again. Presently his voice sounded 
close to my ear; and, glancing at him from behind my 
handkerchief, I saw that he had gone down on his knees 
to be near me, and that his kind lace wore an expression 
almost of yearning. 

“ My dear boy,” I said, gently, “ you are a good fellow. 
I wish I were your mother too !” 

Deane sighed. 

“ I wish you were,” he echoed, with such touching 
heartiness that I looked at him in surprise. 

“ Well, but,” I insinuated, softly, “ it isn’t as if you had 
no mother yourself, is it?” 

A strange expression of pain, regret, and annoyance 
came into his face. He jumped up suddenly from the 
floor, and spoke with some constraint. 

“ Mrs. Keen,” said he, in a rather bitter tone, “ there 
are mothers and mothers I” 

I looked at him in surprise. Was this young fellow 
ashamed of his mother, I wondered. He noticed the 
expression of my face, I suppose, for his next words 
were apologetic and explanatory. 


262 


MY CHILD AND L 


“ You know, I suppose, Mrs. Keen, that it is only lately 
I have known my — my mother. Lady Stephana always 
let me understand — if she has not actually told me so, 
as I am pretty sure she has — that my parents were both 
dead. It is only since Lady Stephana has been out of 
the country that — that — my mother” — he seemed to 
have an insurmountable objection to using the word in 
connection with his newly discovered maternal parent — 
‘‘ has turned up.” 

Perhaps,” I suggested, wondering whether this idea 
had occurred to him, “perhaps she is not your mother 
at all.” 

An involuntary sigh betrayed the fact that he would 
have been glad to believe what I suggested, if it had 
been possible. 

“ Why on earth should she say so, if it were not true ?” 
he said, with some irritation. “To do her justice, she 
hasn’t tried to use her relationship to me in any way 
whatever. Why she thought it worth her while to lay 
claim to me I can’t think, for it is clear she doesn’t care 
a rap about me.” 

“ Didn’t she take care of you while you were ill ?” I 
asked, in astonishment. 

“ After a fashion, yes. But the old landlady did more 
for me than she did.” 

“ Why,” said I, puzzled, “ when I came to the house, 
while you were ill, at Wandsworth, she seemed to be 
jealous of me.” 

“ Yes, that’s true ; so she is, very jealous of you. I 
found it out in connection with your visit. But the feel- 
ing seems stronger than her affection for me, I assure 
you.” 

He took up his hat from the table on which he had 
placed it when he knelt down beside me. 

“I must get back,” said he, “and see how things are 
going.” 

“ Stop,” said I, “ you haven’t explained everything to 
me yet. Tell me exactly what happened. This girl — 
Ethel — where did you find her ?” 

“ I was going home by rail, from town. This is my 
first day back at work,” explained he. “ And I happened 
to overhear a few words between two men, police officers, 
who were going to arrest a man, and something put it 


MY CHILD AND L 


263 


into my head that it might be our man. It was only an 
idea, but I was not far out. I took a hansom to our 
lodgings, and found Harry there with this girl, who had 
just arrived, and whom he had persuaded to elope with 
him. I took Harry aside, 'and told him my suspicions, 
and gave him the straight tip to be otf. He didn’t want 
any persuasion, but got out of the house by the back 
way, not five minutes before the very men I had seen 
came in by the front. They made no secret of their 
visit ; and the poor girl went into hysterics, and it was 
as much as 1 could do to calm her and persuade her to 
let me take her home. That’s all the story.” 

And he again took up his hat. I went with him into 
the hall, where, as we appeared by the one door, Mrs. 
Everett was seen at another. Meg was not far behind 
her. 

“Are you going, Mr. Carey?” asked Mrs. Everett, 
holding out her hand with much warmth. 

“ Unless I can be of any use to you or to Mrs. Keen,” 
answered he. 

“Thank you,” said I. “If you will walk with me as 
far as the cab-stand I shall be glad, as I have to pay 
another call to-night.” 

“Won’t you stay and dine with us first?” asked Mrs. 
Everett. 

But I signified by a glance and a gesture that my 
business was too important to admit of delay, and, yield- 
ing to an appealing glance from Meg, I made her excuses 
also. In a few minutes, therefore, she and Deane and I 
were outside the door together. 

As my visit was to Mr. Boyle, the lawyer, I w^anted no 
escort. Deane, however, wished to put Meg into a hansom 
with me. 

“ Mamma doesn’t want me, Mr. Carey,” she said, very 
coolly. “But if you are determined to get rid of me, 
you may put me into another hansom, and tell the driver 
to take me to Kerr Street.” 

“ I’m sure I don’t wish to get rid of you at all. Miss 
Keen,” answered Deane, with the same stiffness that had 
characterized his manner to her ever since we started. 
“ I thought you would wish to return with Mrs. Keen. 
That was all.” 

“And, having found out that I did not wish to return 


264 


MY CHILD AND L 


with Mrs. Keen, you found it convenient to suppose that 
I should prefer to return by myself?” 

Deane said nothing. But he looked so cold and kept 
his eyes so persistently away from her face that, if 
we had not had reason to know the contrary, we might 
have supposed that her very presence bored him un 
speakably. 

Now, I should like,” Meg went on, with some mis- 
chief in her tone, to go home by — omnibus.” Both her 
hearers looked a little startled. 

“ Meg !” exclaimed I. 

While Deane appeared quite shocked. 

“ Yes,” she persisted, “ by omnibus. I have never been 
on the top of an omnibus, and I know I should like it, 
of all things. But I suppose,” she added, pensively, 
one cannot very well travel — by one’s self— if one is a 
woman — on the top of an omnibus !” 

There was a pause. Miserable as I was, I could scarcely 
help smiling at the girl’s little coquetries and at poor 
Deane’s valiant attempts to be unconscious of them. 

“Not very well,” he admitted, at last, in a solemn and 
sepulchral tone. 

“ Then,” she said, with an outrageous sigh, “ I suppose 
I must give it up. And,” she went on, wistfully, “I ^ 
should have liked it so much !” 

The struggle, the long struggle was over. Deane looked 
down at her, frowning most forbiddingly^ 

“ Of course I will see you home that way, if you like. 
Miss Keen,” he said, in a hurt tone. “ But I warn you 
there is no line of omnibuses which will take you any- 
where near your home, from here, without your going 
a long way round !” 

“And you can’t spare the time, I suppose?” said she, 
quickly. “ Or perhaps it offends your susceptibilities to 
travel by such a popular form of conveyance ?” 

“ That’s it exactly, of course !” 

“ Still, you will put up with the top of an omnibus — 
and with me — for once ?” 

Eeally the girl’s coquetry was growing outrageous. I 
felt that involuntarily I was drawing myself up. Deane’s 
face suddenly changed, as if he were throwing off a great 
weight and becoming reckless. 

“ I really think,” I said, in icy chaperon’s tones, “ that 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


265 


you had better come with me, Meg. You can wait in 
the cab.” 

“ Oh, but, mamma, I shall find it so slow in a cab by 
myself, — even worse than on the top of an omnibus with 
a person who doesn’t want to take me !” 

“ But who will nevertheless do his humble best to take 
proper care of you now that he is in for the infliction of 
your society,” added Deane, solemnly. 

By this time we had reached the cab-stand, and the 
young people got rid of me very promptly, without 
indecent haste, but with perfect resignation to the fate 
which for a short time was to keep us apart. Deane, 
however, did not forget to tell me not to worry about 
Harry. 

“ He has the most wonderful knack of falling on his 
feet, you know,” he whispered, consolingly, as he closed 
the doors of the hansom for me. 

And 1 smiled into his kind face, and shook his hand 
in warm gratitude for his steady friendship to my son. 

I can’t help thinking that by the time my hansom 
turned out of the square, and I got a last peep at the two 
figures, the tall man and the little girl, standing on the 
pavement together, they had both forgotten my very 
existence. 


CHAPTEE XXXVI. 

Meg, who liked talking about Deane, told me all that 
happened after I had left them together. He, poor 
fellow, was at a disadvantage ; for he knew nothing of 
that scrawl which he had written in his illness, in which 
he had made so complete a confession of his love for 
her. 

She, on the other hand, was mistress of the situation ; 
for, while she knew he loved her, he had not the remotest 
idea that she felt for him anything stronger than a 
coquette’s transient liking for her victim. 

“ What do you think,” she began, as they started in 
the direction which he said would lead them to the 
nearest omnibus route, “will become of your cousin 
Harry?” 

M 


23 


266 


MY CHILD AND L 


Deane looked more gloomy than ever at the question. 

“ Tm sure I don’t know,” said he. “ I’m hoping that 
ho will get out of the country, which is his only chance 
of safety. But he will keep on delaying it. He has 
always been lucky, and so he has become reckless.” 

Well, I wish he’d make up his mind to go,” said Meg, 
“ if only for poor mamma’s sake. She will keep on 
worrying about him, trying to harden herself against 
him at one moment and ready to yield to him in every- 
thing in the next, until he’s out of the way.” 

There was a short pause. Then Deane said, — 

And you ? Do you really wish him — out of the 
way ?” 

“ Indeed I do, with all my heart,” she replied, promptly. 

There was another short silence, and then Deane said, 
emphatically, — 

‘‘ I can’t understand you women. I always thought, 
and he always thought — there’s no harm in my telling 
you this, now that he has given himself away as he has 
done — that you were very fond of him.” 

** IN’o ! Hot really ? Why ?” 

“Well, you were always fond of talking to him, and 
laughing with him ; in fact, you never seemed to take 
any notice of anybody else while he was there.” 

“Is that all the reason you have to give?” said Meg, 
disdainfully. “ You thought I was very fond of him 
because I talked and laughed with him !” 

“ There !” said Deane, desperately, “ that is how you 
women are so exasperating. You act as you please, in a 
haphazard fashion, and don’t understand what a natural 
inference means.” 

“ I don’t understand that it must be taken for granted 
that I’m in love with everybody I like to talk to!” 

“Then what is a man to go upon? — if you are at 
liberty to take open and evident pleasure and then to 
turn round with a stare of surprise when the poor fellow 
thinks he has made you like him ?” 

Meg stopped short. They were only sauntering, very 
slowly, waiting for the omnibus to catch them up. 

“ Mr. Carey,” she asked, deliberately, “ do you really 
mean to imply that I have treated your cousin badly?” 

“Harry! Oh, no!” he said, quickly, with involuntary 
emphasis. 


MY CHILD AND L 


267 


“ Whom, then, have I treated badly ?” 

one, of course,” answered he, hastily, in much 
confusion. Then, recovering himself a little, he said, 
more coolly, “We were arguing an abstract question, 
were we not ?” 

“ Dear me, I had no idea we were doing anything so 
interesting ! I thought you were accusing me, and that 
I was defending myself. Tell me, are we going to dis- 
cuss abstract questions all the way to Kerr Street? 
Because, if so, I shall be bored, and I am more of an 
infliction than ever when I am bored.” 

“I am afraid there are not many subjects I could 
discuss with you without boring you,” said he, rather 
ruefully. 

“Eeally? I think there must be. Tell me, for in- 
stance,” — and she became a little less self-controlled, a 
little more difiident, a little shyer in manner, — “ tell me 
what you thought about when you were lying ill.” 

Deane, who was stooping to be nearer her level, drew 
himself up with a sudden jerk. 

“ Oh, well, I — I don’t know that I thought- of anything 
particular, or, at least, of anything that would interest 
you,” he answered, much disconcerted. 

“ Tell me, and let me judge.” 

Deane remained silent. 

“ Well,” said Meg, with a little catch in her voice, “let 
me help you. Did you think of any people ?” 

“ Oh, yes ; yes, I did, I dare say.” 

“ Many people ? Or — or few people ?” 

“ Kot so very many,” said Deane, as if the words were 
being wrung out of him. 

“ Did you, for instance, ever think of — mamma ?” 

“ Yes, certainly I did,” said Deane, heartily, as if he 
had received a reprieve. 

“ And did you ever think of — me ?” 

“ There’s the omnibus !” almost shouted Deane, in the 
tone in which Eobinson Crusoe must have cried, “A 
sail !” 

It was a long way olf still, that longed-for vehicle ; but 
Deane affected to be anxious not to lose it a moment 
from sight ; he kept his eyes fixed on it, and would suffer 
no word to be uttered about anything else until the big 
lumbering thing drove up, and stopped, and allowed 


268 


MY CHILD AND L 


them to scramble up on to one of the front garden-seats, 
which had just been vacated. 

Here, however, he was absolutely at her mercy. Meg 
showed him no quarter. 

“ Let me see, where were we ?” she said, meditatively, 
as if she were really trying to recover the lost thread 
of an interesting discourse. “ Oh, I remember. I was 
asking you if, when you were ill, you ever thought of 
me?” 

There was a pause again. Then Deane snapped out, 
shortly, — 

“ Yes.” 

Meg was unmollified by this concession. 

“ Well, what sort of things did you think about me? 
Nice things? Or — or things that were not nice? Did 
you think, the thing you said about me once, that I was 
a fiirt, and that 1 ought to be held in abhorrence accord- 
ingly ?” 

“ I never said that — I never thought that.” 

Meg went on, suavely, — 

“I can’t undertake to tell whether you thought \i ov 
not. You certainly did say it.” 

“That you were to be held in abhorrence? Never!” 

“ I don’t remember the words, only the sense. That 
was the sense. Nothing was too bad for a flirt, and I 
was the worst flirt you’d ever met.” 

Here Meg looked up at him, with a look which was 
a challenge. Deane glanced at her, and then looked 
steadily at the driver’s hat. 

“ On second thoughts, perhaps you’re right ; perhaps 
I did say it,” said he, quietly. 

Meg, not quite expecting this sudden change of front, 
could only say, “ Ah I” 

She presently added, “ You do remember it now ?” 

“ Well, no ; frankly, I don’t. But I am arguing what 
I might have said then by what I might say now.” 

“ You abhor me now ? Is that what you mean ?” 

“ No. It is what I should like to mean, though.” 

“ That is very unkind. What harm have I done you ?” 

“None. Flirts never do any real harm. They hurt 
one a little, sometimes ; but they help one to a better 
understanding of their sex, and to a truer appreciation 
of it.” 


MY CHILD AND L 269 

Then, on the whole, you will retain a grateful remem- 
brance of me?” 

Deane remained silent until, by another little glance 
up into his face, the empress implied that she was im- 
patient for an answer. 

“ I shall retain a remembrance of you,” he replied, in 
a very low voice. “ Will you take that for an answer, 
please ?” 

“^N’o, I won’t,” said she. That would be very unsat- 
isfactory. I would rather hear point-blank that your 
remembrance of me would be a disagreeable one than 
have things left in the vague like that !” 

“ It will not be altogether a disagreeable one.” 

“ Kor altogether an agreeable one, I suppose ?” 

‘‘Hor altogether an agreeable one.” 

“ That is a pleasant thing to hear to one’s face !” 

You should not have begun this catechism, then. I am 
quite blameless, for I should certainly never have thought 
of troubling you with these unimportant details of my 
experiences if you had not insisted on my doing so. 
How let us talk about — omnibuses. How do you like 
this, your first experience of the people’s conveyance ?” 

“Ho more than I like anything else belonging to the 
people. It is a great lumbering, horrid thing, and it 
frightens me not to be able to see the wheels.” 

“Would you like to get down, and go back in a han- 
som, after all ?” 

“ I don’t particularly wish to, but, if I am too unbear- 
able, I will let you send me home so.” 

She was putting him through a terrible ordeal. In his 
face, in his self-repressed attitude, she saw that he was 
suffering from acute agitation ; but all her efforts were 
powerless to make him betray himself more thoroughly. 

“ I am sorry,” he said at last, as stiffly as in the first 
shy days of their acquaintance, “ that I haven’t been able 
to entertain you better. But at least you knew what you 
were in for when you let me see you home. I am not a 
duller companion at one time than at another. There is 
just that one advantage in stupid people, that you know 
what to expect ; while a brilliant person has his good days 
and his bad days.” 

For some time after this they remained silent. At 
last the omnibus turned into Piccadilly. Then Deane 
23 * 


270 


MY CHILD AND I 


spoke again, in an altered voice, with a great and touch- 
ing gentleness in his tone : 

“ This is your nearest point to Kerr Street, Miss Keen.” 

The words were commonplace enough, but poor little 
Meg, who had been sitting like a frightened bird on its 
perch since his last speech, recognised in his tones both 
melancholy and something like self-reproach. 

“ Thank you,” she said, gently, “ I will get down here.” 

So Deane helped her down, and they walked along in 
silence towards Kerr Street. Deane was suffering un- 
told tortures in the knowledge that his treatment had 
quenched the bright little coquette’s vivacity, and at last 
he tried to tell her so. 

I wish, Miss Keen,” ho began, in a gruff, strangled 
voice, ‘‘ that I had made you come back in the hansom.” 

“ Ko doubt. You feel, I suppose, that you have been 
wasting your time with such a frivolous person as I.” 

‘‘ 'No. I feel like a great, clumsy elephant who has 
put its hoof down on a beautiful little bird and crushed 
all the brightness out of it.” 

The bird is not so easily crushed as you imagine, Mr. 
Carey I” cried Meg, with forced sprightliness. “ When 
you thought it was under your hoof, it was really 
perched on the tip of your trunk, laughing at you. The 
little dicky has a spirit of its own, I assure you, and sets 
a higher value on its own plumage than the elephant 
might think.” 

By this time they had reached the portico of the house 
in Kerr Street. Meg held out her hand in a half-shy, 
half-dignified manner. 

“ Good-bye,” she said. 

Deane hesitated. The muscles of his face were twitch- 
ing. She saw this, and made one last attempt to drag 
from him some little admission, some confession, no 
matter how half-hearted. 

“I suppose,” she said, “that, as our acquaintance 
began with Harry, so it is to end with him. This, 
therefore, is in all human probability our last meeting ?” 

“ In all probability, yes,” answered he. 

His voice was shaking: if that was an admission, a 
confession, it was all she had to content herself with. 

“ I shall write to Mrs. Keen if I hear anything about 
Harry,” said he. 


Mr CHILD AND L 


271 


Oh, yes,” said she. 

“ Good-bye.” 

“ Good-bye.” 

And as the door was opened by the footman, Deane 
raised his bat and walked away. 

Meg went into the drawing-room, where Burgess was 
dozing, or pretending to doze, in an arm-chair. As she 
came in, he awoke, or pretended to awake. 

“ Who’s that you came home with ?” he asked, shortly. 

Deane Carey.” 

“ Ah, well, we don’t want any of that crew about any 
more,” he said, in some excitement. 

For a wonder, Meg had no answer ready, or, at any 
rate, she did not utter it. 

“ You have dined, I suppose ?” he asked, as she walked 
towards the door. 

“ I don’t want any dinner, thank you.” 

Then Burgess noticed something and laughed. 

“ Ah, you have heard the news, then, I suppose, that 
there’s a warrant out for the scoundrel who murdered 
your father.” 

“Yes, I’ve heard it. Burgess,” and the girl came 
back to lean coaxingly over his chair, “ don’t talk about 
it to mamma.” 

He would not promise, but Meg, although she knew 
that Burgess was not without malice, thought she saw a 
gleam of kindliness, of regret, in his face. She left the 
room, thinking not of Harry, but of Deane. 

“ And he does care for me, he does all the time 1” she 
said to herself, with a sigh. 

It was late when I returned home that night, after 
having had a most unsatisfactory interview with Mr. 
Boyle. I thought it best to make no secret of the scrape 
Harry had got into. Tone the story down as I would, 
its effect was strong upon the solicitor, who had probably 
begun to have difficulties with Harry which made him 
inclined to put the worst construction upon my unlucky 
son’s misfortunes. He advised me emphatically to send 
him out of the country as quickly as possible ; and, when 
I asked if that would not be considered as an acknowl- 
edgment that he was guilty, Mr. Boyle shrugged his 
shoulders with a suggestive silence which made me 
shiver. 


272 


MF CHILD AND L 


I returned home miserable and terribly anxious. 
Wishing to slip quietly up to my room without encoun- 
tering Burgess, I was annoyed when my step-son, who 
had evidently been on the watch for my return, came 
out of the study to meet me. I was cold and distant, 
but he persisted in speaking kindly and with feeling. 

“ You have no right to be angry with me over this 
business,” he whispered in my ear as I went up-stairs. 

Eemember, if this fellow is your son, of which by the 
way you can hardly be sure, my step-father, whom he 
murdered, was your husband. Eemember, too, that this 
young man is a scoundrel who would think nothing of 
murdering you also, if he thought he could gain any- 
thing by it. You have no right to be angry with me 
for furthering the ends of justice.” 

In my heart I knew this ; and, although I would not 
unbend at that time, yet on the following day, when I 
was broken in spirit after a sleepless night, I was more 
conciliatory towards my step-son. He seized upon this 
new mood to urge upon me a course which I was reluc- 
tant to take, although I admitted the soundness of his 
reasons. He wanted me to go to Paris to join some 
friends of ours who were on their way to the Eiviera. 

“ You can do no good to Harry Carey before he is 
arrested,” said he, in his matter-of-fact, sledge-hammer 
fashion, which he had in part borrowed from his late 
step-father. “And mind,” he went on, emphatically, 
looking me straight in the eyes, “ if he is arrested you 
can hardly fail to do him a great deal of harm, unless 
you perjure yourself horribly. For you would certainly 
be called as a witness at the trial'' 

I started, and shuddered with horror. This possibility 
had never occurred to me. 

I knew afterwards that this speech of Burgess’s was 
a bow drawn at a venture, for he did not know how 
much I had seen. It served its purpose, however ; and 
I allowed him to telegraph to the people I was to join 
in Paris, saying that I should start that evening. 

At eight-fifteen that evening, therefore, Burgess and 
Meg, who was to stay with Aunt Hi during my absence, 
saw me off by the night mail from Charing Cross. They 
insisted on my having Sanders, whom I would much 
rather have been without, in the carriage with me, being, 


MY CHILD AND L 


273 


both of them, rather anxious about me, as the trouble I 
had been through was beginningto atfect me in the form 
of fainting-fits. They got the guard to lock us in, and 
I was quite touched by the solicitude even Burgess 
showed as he wished me good-bye. 

Sanders, however, glared at him with indescribable 
and surprising malice as the train moved otf. 

‘‘The cruel hypocrite,” she murmured, as she looked 
at him through the window, “ to come between a mother 
and her son !” 

I glanced at the woman apprehensively, hoping that 
she was not going to treat me to a discourse on this text 
to beguile the time. But she relapsed into silence, which 
lasted, uninterrupted by me, until we reached Cannon 
Street. 

I was leaning back on my seat with my eyes closed 
when I was roused by hearing the guard unlock our 
door. 

“ This carriage is engaged,” said I, quickly. 

A well-known voice struck upon my ear. 

“ Ail right, it’s all right, guard : this is my mother.” 

And, as soon as the guard had opened the door, Harry, 
in travelling costume, and with his rug on his arm, 
jumped in and gave me a kiss as he threw himself on 
the seat beside me. 

In another moment the train was steaming towards 
Dover. 


CHAPTEE XXXYII. 

I WAS overwhelmed by this fresh piece of brilliant 
audacity on the part of my son. I leaned back in my 
seat, and for a few moments his words sounded in my 
ears as if they came from a long way off. 

Then I heard Sanders’ voice whisper, “ Sh-sh I” and 
the next moment she came quickly to me with my 
smelling-salts. I opened my eyes, and caught a look 
exchanged between the maid and Harry which showed 
me that it was to her good offices that he owed the in- 
telligence which had enabled him to meet me. 

No one would have imagined, while listening to his 


274 


MY CHILD AND L 


lively chatter, how serious his need was to escape from 
his native country. The watchfulness, the anxiety, were 
mine. Indeed, a great deal of his talk fell upon deaf 
ears, as far as I was concerned. The situation was so 
strange, so unexpected, so puzzling, that I needed all my 
wits to devise some way out of it. At last I said, not 
lowering my voice much, for there was very little that 
Sanders did not know about the family affairs, — 

“Harry, what are you going to do? Where are you 
going to leave me ?” 

He answered, in the easiest, airiest manner, — 

“ I don’t propose, for the present at least, to leave you 
at all, mother.” 

“But surely you understand that you cannot remain 
with me, that it would not be safe ? I am to be met to- 
morrow morning, on arriving in Paris, by some friends 
who are going on with me to the Eiviera. The son is a 
great friend of Burgess’s ; he does not know who you 
are ; he would certainly write about my travelling com- 
panion to Burgess, if he were to see you.” 

“ He shall not see me,” replied Harry, promptly. 
“ Give me the name of your hotel ; I will drop out of the 
carriage as soon as the train arrives, and by the time 
you reach your halting-place for the night you will find 
me duly installed.” 

“ Yes, yes, that may do for to-night. But afterwards ? 
We start, all together, in two days’ time.” 

“You must give them the slip, that’s all.” 

I was taken aback once more by this effervescent self- 
ishness and buoyant disregard of every one’s convenience 
but his own. 

“ That is impossible,” said I, with sudden coldness. “ I 
cannot alter my plans. And as for you, France is not 
far enough away ” 

“ I know that, mother,” said he, calmly. “ I propose,’' 
he went on, as he unfolded his rug and wrapped it care- 
fully round his knees, “ that we go first to Switzerland. 
You have some money with you, of course, which will 
last a long time at this time of year, when there is 
nobody in the place. We shall be as safe as if we were 
buried ; dull, perhaps, but that we must put up with. 1 
don’t mind a little dulness for a change, especially with 
you.” 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


275 


And he threw his arm round me affectionately, with 
all the aplomb of an assured position. 

As soon as I had recovered from the stupefaction into 
which this audacious programme had thrown me, I re- 
pelled his caress with some warmth, and said, sharply, — 

“ You misunderstand me altogether, Harry. I am not 
going away with you j I am not going to alter my plans 
for you ; I am going to help you forward on your way 
to America, and that is all.” 

“ But supposing I don’t want to go to America, what 
then? Supposing I prefer to go back to London and 
take my chance of arrest, to wandering over the face of 
the earth without money and without friends ?” 

I was trembling, I was agitated ; still, I saw clearly 
enough that he was in the wrong. 

And are you willing, then, to subject me to the hourly 
anxiety of fearing to see you arrested before my eyes, 
when you might relieve my mind and make yourself 
perfectly safe by going to America ?” 

Harry, perhaps at a loss for an answer to this, tossed 
the question airily aside. 

“Ah, well, we’ll discuss that in the morning,” said he. 
“ In the mean time it is enough for me, after the har- 
assing life I have led lately, to be with you, just to sit by 
my mother’s side again, and to look at her beautiful face, 
and to listen to her charming voice, even if she’s unkind 
enough to do nothing but scold me !” 

A subdued sigh from the other end of the carriage 
showed that sentimental Sanders, at least, was touched 
to the quick by this speech, which Harry uttered in his 
most persuasive and insinuating tones. 

During the whole of the journey he proved the most 
perfect of travelling companions, ready with all the 
little attentions which a woman likes to receive, and 
which too many a worthy Englishman considers it be- 
neath him to bestow, — on the ladies of his own family, 
at any rate. He never seemed to get tired, or irritable, 
or cold, or hungry ; and when, in the murky light of an 
early November morning, we roused ourselves, when 
nearing Paris, and looked at each other, he seemed to 
be, not a haggard and worn-out traveller after a night 
journey, but exactly the same lively and smiling creature 
who had been so full of high spirits the night before. 


276 


MF CHILD AND L 


And now to prepare to make a rush for it !’* said he, 
as he strapped up his rug and then proceeded to help 
Sanders with mine. “Your friends, if they really do 
meet you at the station, will be hardly wide-awake 
enough to notice whether it is a man or a ghost who 
flies past them. I shall be at the hotel as soon as you 
are.” 

It was useless to argue with him. He carried out the 
arrangement he had made to the letter. As soon as the 
compartment was unlocked, he sprang out, and, having 
left the little luggage he had brought with him, for us to 
pass, with ours, through the Custom House, he promptly 
disappeared, long before my friend’s son, who was at 
the station to meet me, had caught sight of us in the 
crowd. 

At the hotel we were met by Harry, who had already 
succeeded in charming the proprietress, who was up to 
receive her early guests. He had explained to her that 
he was my son, and that an extra room would be wanted, 
he having made up his mind to come with his mother at 
the very last moment, when the telegram for rooms had 
alread}^ been sent olf. As soon as I appeared, he escorted 
me up-stairs with the same tender attention he had 
shown me during the journey, and retired to the room 
he had engaged, it having been settled that we were to 
meet at the hotel dejeuner at eleven o’clock. 

Left alone with Sanders, I turned upon her, reproach- 
ing her for her duplicity. She wept copiously, but was 
not penitent. 

“Well, ma’am,” said she, “I knew you too well to 
think you would be able to bear the thought of having 
thrown your own son over just when he wanted a 
mother’s kindness,” she said, between her sobs. “And 
with Mr. Burgess so hard on him too, and all the world 
against him. And such a good-tempered, good-humoured, 
affectionate young gentleman, who, I’m sure, for all they 
say, would never hurt a fly !” 

Eemonstrance was indeed too late to be of any use, 
so I dismissed her as quickly as possible, and tried to get 
some rest. But every sound startled me from the uneasy 
sleep into which I fell : half a dozen times I sprang up, 
cold and damp with terror, thinking I heard the voices 
of the gendarmes come to arrest Harry. I was quite 


MY CHILD AND L 277 

glad when vSanders came back, soon after ten o’clock, to 
help me to dress. 

1 had engaged a sitting-room, but it was Harry him- 
self who had suggested that we should dine in the public 
salle-a-manger, as it would be lively ; for he seemed to 
have no thought of concealing himself, or of anything 
but enjoyment of each small pleasure that presented 
itself I was shocked, confused, desperate, when the 
young fellow who had met me at the station that morn- 
ing came in during luncheon, accompanied by two of his 
sisters. Harry, on the contrary, was delighted, and 
introduced himself as my son, during the awkward 
pause of constraint made by myself ; and in a moment 
every one at our small table was at ease except m3^self. 

I didn’t know you had a son, Mrs. Keen,” said the 
elder girl, who was evidently charmed with Harry. “ I 
had never even heard you had been married twice.” 

Before the meal was over, I was amazed to hear an 
appointment made between the young people to meet on 
the boulevards that afternoon, when they were to settle 
something for the evening. 

When they had gone, and Harry and I had returned 
to my sitting-room, I asked him how he could be so 
madly imprudent as to show himself in the way he was 
doing. 

“ Why, mother, it’s the best possible policy,” he an- 
swered, with a touch of shrewdness in his light manner. 
“ If you appear to have nothing to fear, it is much easier 
to make a sudden bolt of it if necessary than if ^’ou 
went sneaking about, with your eyes round the corner, 
asking people to suspect you. At any rate, now, what- 
ever happens, I shall spend the evening with two awfully 
nice girls and their very decent brother. And an even- 
ing’s pleasure to the good is always something, rCest-ce 
pas, maman f ” 

He was leaning over the balcony railing, watching, 
with the greatest interest and amusement, the crowd 
below. He took a tobacco-pouch out of his pocket, and, 
after asking my permission to smoke, began to roll him- 
self a cigarette. 

Can you make cigarettes, mother ?” he asked, in his 
usual affectionate manner, looking up insinuatingly into 
my face. 


24 


278 


MY CHILD AND L 


I shook my head, and he looked quite disappointed. 

“I should have enjoyed it so much better if it had 
been rolled by your pretty white hands,” he complained, 
in a hurt tone. “ Mother, I am going to persuade you 
to expatriate yourself altogether, and to go to live with 
your scapegrace son in France or Italy or Spain, and 
wean him from his evil ways by living in the sun with 
him, and making cigarettes and listening to his ‘jaw’ all 
day long ! Easy enough, isn’t it ? Who would refuse 
to reclaim a fellow-creature on such terms ?” 

I did not answer. He was outside the window, on the 
balcony, while I, older and more susceptible to the keen 
air of November, was watching him from inside. I was 
trying to understand this volatile being, whom I had 
brought into the world to be my torment. Not put out 
by my silence, he went on, — 

“ Exile would have no horrors for me — for you! These 
Continental peoples I feel I have more in common with 
than with our dear old stodgy Britons. Look how they 
enjoy life, even its commonest incidents. Look at ” 

He stopped suddenly, and drew back. Glancing at 
him quickly, full of the nervous apprehension I had 
suffered constantly since he joined me the night before, 
I saw that he had grown deadly white. I made way for 
him to enter the room, and, when he had passed me, I 
whispered, “ What did you see ? Are they coming — for 
you ?” 

He threw back his head, and affected to laugh heartily. 

“ Mother, mother, what a coward you are ! No, ‘ they’ 
are not coming; nobody is coming; nobody will come 
while you are near me. I beheve you are my guardian 
angel !” 

Although he threw his arm around me and kissed my 
cheek with his usual demonstrative affection, he did not 
deceive me : I knew he had seen some one or something, 
and that the sight had given him a great shock. 

He presently suggested that I should go and lie down 
for a little while, and I assented readily enough ; for I 
found the nervous tension at which I was kept while in 
Harry’s presence very fatiguing. I left him, therefore, 
and retired to my bedroom, where I fell into a deep, 
heavy sleep. 

I awoke suddenly, when it was quite dark, to find 


MY CHILD AND L 


279 


Sanders standing like a sentinel by my bedside. With an 
instinct that something was wrong, 1 sat up and cried, — 

“ What is it ? What has happened ?” 

“ Oh, ma’am. Master Harry!” 

‘‘ They have not — taken him I” I whispered, hoarsely. 

“No, ma’am, oh, no. Not so bad as that. But — • 
there’s been a woman after him.” 

“ Ah!” 

“ She came right up to his room after him, ma’am. I 
don’t know how they let her come up, or how she got 
up, or what. But you know my bedroom is next to his, 
ma’am ; and all of a sudden I heard a tap on his door, 
and I looked out, thinking it was at my door ; and I saw 
a woman go in. And I heard Master Harry cry, ‘Good 
heavens! what do you want?’ And the woman was 
very angry, and she said he didn’t care for her, and had 
given her the slip, after all she’d done for him ; but that 
she was not going to be put oif like that, and he must 
make up his mind to stick to her, or it would be the 
worse for him.” 

“ Why do you tell me these things ?” I asked, irrita- 
bly. “ I don’t want to hear them ; I will not hear them. 
I have enough to bear on his account without troubling 
myself about his intrigues.” 

“ Well, ma’am, I wouldn’t have told you, and I wouldn’t 
have listened, only the woman was threatening him, 
ma’am. That’s what made me think I’d better tell you. 
She said she wouldn’t go away until he’d promised to 
take her with him wherever he was going.” 

I made no answer. I foresaw that there would be a 
constant succession of small troubles to bear, as well as 
the great one, as long as my son chose to honour me with 
his society. And that would be, as it seemed, an indefi- 
nite period. 

It was near the hour of the table-d'hote, for which 
Harry had promised to be back. I began to wonder 
whether he would keep his appointment, or whether the 
charms of his new friends of the morning would cause 
him to forget it, when I heard his voice outside my door 
asking if I was ready. He seemed as cheerful as ever, 
as we went down stairs together, and it was not until 
dinner was half over that he disclosed the fact that he 
had a burden on his mind. 


280 


MY CHILD AND L 


Mother,” he said, affectionately, as he picked up my 
serviette, which had fallen on the floor, ‘‘ what will you 
say to me if I ask you to go on from here to-night ?” 

“ To-night ! But where to ?” 

‘‘ Oh, I don’t much care where, so long as I am with 
you. Why not try Eome, or Florence ? The fact is I’ve 
discovered 1 have a spy at my heels, a flend in the shape 
of a woman, and I want to get away from Aer, and to get 
away with you'' 

“ But, Harry, I have told you it is impossible that I 
should go with you. There are a thousand reasons why 
I should not, and the chief of them is that it would be 
the readiest possible way of letting Burgess Falconer 
know where you were.” 

“ Burgess be hanged !” said Harry, lightly. “ He will 
think twice about having me interfered with as long as 
I am actually with you.” 

This astute remark opened my eyes : I could not help 
a suspicion that my son’s filial devotion was founded on 
a basis of shrewd calculation. I warned him, rather 
coldly, that my step-son was not troubled with an over- 
flow of tender sentiment for me, and that he would cer- 
tainly console himself for any outrage which Harry’s 
arrest in my presence would inflict upon my feelings, by 
saying that I ought to thank him for ridding me of him. 

“ And would you thank him ?” asked Harry, in a low 
voice, looking into my eyes with a gaze full of reproach. 

I shuddered. 

“ Yet you are not willing to take the smallest step out 
of your way to help me to safety ?” 

“ What are you afraid of that you are so anxious to go 
away to-night ?” 

“ Oh,” answered Harry, with a frown of annoyance, 
“ I’m afraid of this woman turning nasty.” 

“ Does she know — everything, then ?” 

“ Bather !” 

I reflected for a few moments. Then I told him that 
I would give him my answer when we went up-stairs. 
Dinner being by this time over, Harry sprang up, and 
in a few moments we were again in the sitting-room. 
Harry turned up the lamp, and looked at my face with 
anxiety. He saw that I had made up my mind. 

Well, mother?” 


MY CHILD AND L 


281 


“Well, if you will go to Havre and take ship to 
America, I will go and see you on board. That is my 
only alternative to remaining in Paris.’’ 

He did not take long for reflection. He was balancing 
an unlighted cigarette on his forefinger; suddenly he 
tossed it into the air and caught it again. 

“ All right, mother. I’ll go. What time will the next 
train start ?” 

He ran down to the bureau to inquire, and in another 
half-hour we were in fiacre on the way to the station. 

We were in plenty of time. We had taken our tickets, 
and were going slowly along the platform to choose a 
compartment with two vacant corners, when I caught 
sight, among the people on the platform, of two men 
whose appearance filled me with suspicion. The one 
was in gendarme uniform ; the other, who looked like an 
Englishman, wore an ordinary tourist’s suit. Both were 
looking for some one, and the fear crossed my mind that 
they were following me. 

“ This carriage, this one will do,” said I, in a low voice 
to Harry. 

“ All right, mother. Let me help you in.” 

I had my foot on the step, when the two men I had 
noticed came quietly up, and the gendarme put his hand 
on Harry’s shoulder. 

“ Au nom de la loi, monsieur,” said he. 

Harry sprang back, evidently not wholly unprepared 
for the necessity of making a bolt of it at short notice. 
But the man in the tourist’s suit caught him by the arm. 

“ No good, sir. You’d better come quietly,” said he. 
“ Pve brought a warrant for your arrest from London.” 

Harry, either overcome by emotion or pretending to 
be so, exclaimed, in a loud voice, “ My mother ! My 
mother ! It will break her heart !” 

At the same moment he pointed at me. The tone and 
the gesture were sufficiently marked to attract atten- 
tion; and, as the group instantly collected round us, 
Harry made another dashing attempt at escape. But 
the two men were reinforced by two others, who sud- 
denly darted upon him from the outskirts of the crowd, 
and made any further effort to free himself out of the 
question. 

I was standing all this time in the door- way of the 
24 * 


282 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


railway carriage, helpless, paralyzed with terror. The 
scene passed so quickly that I had done no more than cry 
out once, feebly, before the crowd closed round Harry 
and cut him off from my view. 

Then the whole scene faded, and I saw nothing more. 


CHAPTEE XXXYIII. 

When I came to myself I was in the ladies’ waiting- 
room, the centre of a sympathetic crowd. 

Some inkling of the truth had come to these by- 
standers, and they expressed their sympathy in a kindly 
chorus of would-be consolation. The fact that the man 
whom they knew to be my son had not even been allowed 
to return for a last kiss was commented upon with great 
severity. 

‘‘Ah, they have no hearts, these officers of police!” 
cried one excitable bourgeoise. 

While a second, shrugging her shoulders, expressed 
her opinion that the young man would have been allowed 
that privilege if he had not irritated the officers by try- 
ing to escape. 

I got free from their well-meant and voluble sym- 
pathy as quickly as I could, and returned to the hotel, 
where I found two telegrams awaiting me. 

The first I opened was from Burgess, and it contained 
the following words : 

“ You had better come home at once.” 

The second despatch was from Mr. Boyle. It was 
more peremptory than the other, and was worded as 
follows : 

“ Come and see me at once. Most important news to 
communicate.” 

I had lost the last train that night, and there was 
nothing for it but to wait for the early morning train 
that left the Gare du Nord at eight-twenty-two. 


Mr CHILD AND L 


283 


After a sleepless night, therefore, I started for London 
on the following morning, accompanied by Sanders, 
whom, however, I relegated to another compartment, as 
her tearfulness over Harry’s misfortunes had become 
unbearable. 

I mj^self was almost stupefied by my grief It was 
only natural that now, when he was threatened by an 
appalling danger, all the feelings of maternal tenderness 
which I had felt for him both before and since I dis- 
covered my lost son should come back to me with 
renewed force. My journey to London was like a hide- 
ous nightmare. It was marked by only one incident of 
any significance. 

On the boat, crouching in a corner of the portion used 
by the second-class passengers, was a woman, whose head 
was buried in her hands, and whose whole attitude be- 
trayed the fact that she was almost beside herself with 
grief. She was attracting general attention, of which it 
was evident that she was quite unconscious. As I looked 
at the poor thing, feeling deep pity, I heard the voice of 
Sanders close to my ear. 

“Look, ma’am, look,” she whispered. “That’s the 
woman that came to see poor Master Harry at the hotel. 
I know her by the dress ; I am sure of it.” 

These words made me curious to see the woman’s face, 
and, as she was absolutely unconscious of anything but 
her own grief, I watched her from time to time during 
the passage. Hot once, however, did she look up, or give 
me or indeed an}^ one among her fellow-passengers an 
opportunity of seeing her face. She wore a loose ulster 
with capes, and was shabbily dressed altogether; that 
was all I could make out. On landing I lost sight of her ; 
and, although I looked out for her when the train reached 
Charing Cross, I didn’t see her again. I wondered 
whether it was she who had betrayed Harry’s where- 
abouts to the police, and whether the grief she so openly 
showed was the result of remorse. 

Burgess himself met me at Charing Cross. He was 
unusually gentle and kind, and seemed anxious to atone, 
by his consideration and care, for the sorrow he had 
brought upon me. 

“ I’m glad to see that you’re bearing up very well,” 
said he to me as soon as we were in the brougham 


284 


MY CHILD AND L, 


together. “ Really, the fellow’s audacity must have 
struck you yourself as stupendous.” 

“ Don’t talk about it,” whispered I, shivering. Why 
did you send for me ?” 

“ I thought it would be best for you to be back home 
among us all when the crash had really come, for one 
thing. But my chief reason was that Lord Walling- 
hurst’s lawyer said he must see you particularly. He 
has sent several times to Kerr Street already to-day to 
know if you had arrived. I promised him that I would 
take you straight to him as soon as you did come. Do 
you think you could manage the ordeal of an interview 
with him now ?” 

“ No, I’m sure I could not,” I answered, shortly. I 
must have a night’s rest before I have any more worry.” 

Burgess did not insist, and we drove on to Kerr Street 
in silence. 

Little Meg was waiting at the dining-room window, to 
rush out and. comfort me with an affectionate greeting. 
I thought I noticed in her manner an underlying excite- 
ment which had nothing to do either with my return or 
with Harry’s arrest. 

Let me look you full in the face, child,” I said, when 
we had gone up-stairs together to my room. 

“ Why, mamma ? What do you want with me ?” she 
asked, with a sudden lapse into a pretty, rosy shyness. 

You’re excited this evening, Meg. What is the rea- 
son ? Have you seen — somebody again ?” 

Her first answer was a deeper blush than before. 

“ Who is somebody ?” asked she, with an affectation of 
extreme innocence. 

“ Somebody whose conversation on an omnibus, proved 
so very disappointing.” 

Meg raised her eyebrows. 

“ Oh, do you mean Deane Carey ?” she said. 

‘‘ You have seen him since I went away?” 

Yes.” A pause. 

“ Ah, I thought so !” 

But it was to see you, mamma, and not me, that he 
came.” 

But, as I was not here, he put up with you for a little 
while ?” 

‘‘Ye-es, mamma. But ‘put up’ is the exact expres- 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


285 


sion, for I assure you he talked about you the whole 
time. It was this morning he came, before luncheon ; 
he had heard about Harry’s arrest, and he was feverishly 
anxious to know whether it had taken place in your 
presence, and how you had borne it. And when I told 
him that both Burgess and Mr. Boyle had telegraphed 
for you, he got into such a state of excitement that I 
thought he was going to have a fit of some kind ; I really 
did, mamma. He almost cried, and then he walked up 
and down the room as if he had been a wild animal in a 
cage ; and at last he said that he must come here tliis 
evening and see if you had come back, and that if you 
had not come back he thought he should go over to Paris 
to see you.” 

“ Very solicitous, I’m sure !” I exclaimed, dryly. “ And 
his anxiety to see me had nothing at all, I suppose, to do 
with any previous conversation he had had with you ?” 

Meg sprang to my side and looked up earnestly into 
my face. 

“ Indeed it had not, mamma,” she said, emphatically. 

That is how it began. Presently, indeed,” and the girl 
looked down and plucked at my gown, be did begin to 
— to, well to atone a little for bis conduct on the omnibus. 
He took back some of the things he had said about 
flirts, for instance, and said one or two really pretty 
things ; nothing much, I should have thought them from 
anybody else, but you know, mamma, the value of words 
depends so much upon the person who says them, doesn’t 
it?” 

And the girl looked up archly into my face. I 
smoothed her pretty dark hair with my hands, and 
laughed at her. But I wished, with a heavy heart, that 
it had not been Deane Carey, whose presence must 
always remind me of my son, to whom Meg had given 
her first serious affection. 

We dined early that evening, and afterwards I, unable 
to rest, as one always is after a tiring journey, put on a 
mantle and bonnet and went quietly out of the house for 
a walk in tbe adjoining square by myself. I had not 
gone many steps along the street before I heard some 
one following me. At first I took no notice, but, as the 
footsteps echoing after mine began to grow irritating, I 
at last turned round impatiently, and found, to my sur- 


286 


MY CHILD AND L 


prise, that it was Deane Carey who was persistently 
dogging my steps. I had turned within the light of a 
gas-lamp, in order to see who my pursuer was ; and its 
yellow rays fell upon a face so different from Deane’s 
usually placid countenance that my first impression was 
that he ^ad been drinking. 

This idea was confirmed by the manner in which he 
received the shock of my turning upon him. His already 
flushed face became a deeper red, his eyes fell, and he 
staggered. 

“Mr. Carey!” I exclaimed, coldly, “is it you?” 

“ Ye-es, Mrs. Keen,” he answered, in a voice which was 
at once shy, hoarse, and humble. “ 1 — I — I wanted to see 
you, to hear how you were, and to know how you had 
borne your journey.” 

Although he stammered a little as he spoke, I began 
to perceive that I had ascribed his excitement to the 
wrong cause. Still, his behaviour in silently following 
me down the street, instead of coming to the house or 
speaking to me at once, was so strange that I answered 
him doubtfully. 

“I bore it quite well, thank you. You called this 
morning ?” 

Deane began to tremble like a leaf. More and more 
astonished by his behaviour, I said, with a change to a 
more sympathetic manner, — 

“ You feel this misfortune to poor Harry very acutely ?” 

Deane did not answer in quite the tone I expected. 

“ Yes,” he answered, simply, “ we, who cared for him, 
must feel it. But I have — through fearing it so long — 
the edge of the blow was taken off for me.” 

Then what is the matter with you ? I felt inclined to 
ask, but didn’t. Deane, however, read my thoughts. 

“ Mrs. Keen,” said he, with husky earnestness, “ you 
have heard, haven’t you, that the lawyer, Mr. Boyle, — 
Harry’s lawyer, — wants to see you ? Are you going to 
see him now ? Forgive me, it is no business of mine, 
but — but won’t you go and see him to night? He said 
it was important, did he not ?” 

The young man’s excitement, his desperate pleading, 
astonished me beyond measure. What could he know 
about Mr. Boyle’s tidings for me ? And how could they 
interest him ? 


MY CHILD AND L 


287 


“ I had not thought of seeing him to-night, certainly,” 
said I. “ I am very tired, and legal business is not, as a 
rule, inspiriting.” 

“ But this — ^you don’t know what it is,” pursued Deane, 
eagerly. “ It may not be as bad as you fear.” 

I was so much struck by the young man’s manner 
that I began to think he must know something about 
the affair, something, however, which he did not think 
he could properly communicate himself. 

I hesitated. Observing that he had had some effect on 
me, he renewed his persuasions, his entreaties, until the 
end of it was that I allowed him to hail a passing han- 
som, to get into it with me, and to drive with me to Mr. 
Boyle’s private house in one of the big central squares. 

I gave him permission to wait for me, to his unbounded 
gratitude. 

I was ushered at once, on my entrance, into Mr. Boyle’s 
study. 

“ My master’s been expecting you, ma’am, ever since 
six o’clock. And the lady’s been getting very impatient,” 
added the man, who was Mr. Boyle’s confidential ser- 
vant. 

The lady I Who was the lady? Yisions of an un- 
pleasant interview with I^ellie Styles filled my mind as I 
entered the study, which was for the moment untenanted. 

Not two minutes later I heard the voices of Mr. Boyle 
and of a woman outside. It was not Nellie, however ; it 
was Lady Stephana. 

I sprang up, trembling. Now, at last, I should hear 
the truth about my son. 


CHAPTEE XXXIX. 

My heart sank as Lady Stephana Parent came in. 

My thoughts flew back to the time when, three-and- 
twenty years ago, she had come to me at the time of my 
great trouble, and had, by her stony philanthropy and 
by what seemed to me her puritanical injustice, succeeded 
in quenching what little hope and spirit my grief's had 
left in me. 


288 


MY CHILD AND I 


If anything, she was now colder than ever. In truth, 
Lady Stephana, whose saintliness grew more unattractive 
with years, very strongly resented my gradual trans- 
formation from a lonely and helpless woman, whom she 
believed to be neither wife nor maid, into a matron of 
assured position. She seemed to me to have grown 
smaller than ever. She must by this time have been 
not far short of seventy years of age; but her little 
body was so spare that she needed no stick to help her 
along, and her face ivas so small that there was scarcely 
room to show the number of wrinkles one would have 
expected. She now wore on her head a little scrap of 
lace by way of a cap, but this was the only change in 
her shabby and dowdy attire. As far as I could see, 
the gown she wore might have been the very one in 
which I had seen her three-and-twenty years ago. 

I had, indeed, met her since then, on the memorable 
occasion when she visited my husband in Kerr Street, 
when we had exchanged a formal bow. But on that 
occasion the glimpse I had obtained of her had been a 
fleeting one. 

As she advanced into the study, followed by Mr. 
Boyle, I held out my hand. She put a little shrivelled 
claw into mine, and said, with the steely, expressionless 
face I remembered so well, — 

“ You are late, Mrs. Keen. I expected you to come 
straight here as soon as you arrived in London, and I 
have been waiting since six o’clock.” 

But the times were past for Lady Stephana to take 
the high hand with me. 

“ Indeed ! I made no appointment,” said I. 

Lady Stephana had, like most reputed saints, been 
allowed to grow autocratic in consideration of her good 
deeds. 

“ When people come begging for valuable information,” 
she said, tartly, they usually consult the convenience 
of those from whom they hope to receive it.” 

‘‘I have begged for nothing, Lady Stephana,” I 
answered. “ And it was certainly not to aiford me any 
information that you returned to England sooner than 
you intended. — Mr. Boyle,” I went on, turning to the 
lawyer, ‘‘ I don’t know why you sent for me at all to-day. 
Whatever you may think it necessary for me to know, 


MY CHILD AND L 


289 


you will, I am sure, communicate to me yourself at your 
convenience. Good-evening.” 

I think the lawyer was secretly amused by this pas- 
sage of arms between us women- folk. But it was with 
a very grave professional face that he set about restoring 
peace. 

“ It is I who am the beggar,” he said, suavely. It 
was I who begged for Lady Stephana’s information on 
behalf of my client, and I am deeply obliged to her 
ladyship for having thought the matter of sufficient im- 
portance to come to England herself about it. And I 
am equally obliged to you, Mrs. Keen, for coming here 
to-night to hear what it is absolutely necessary for you 
to know. — And now. Lady Stephana,” he went on, as he 
offered the tiny autocrat a large leather arm-chair, seated 
in which she looked like a doll, “will you oblige me by 
relating the circumstances of your adoption of the two 
young men who have passed by the name of Carey ?” 

The little lady affected to turn her back to me com- 
pletely, and addressed the lawyer only. But her little 
thread of a voice was so clear that I heard every word 
of her discourse as well as if it had been poured into my 
own ear. 

“I believe you are aware, Mr. Boyle,” she began, 
“ that I was interested in the reclamation of my nephew 
Harry Darent, the youngest son of my brother, the last 
Lord Wallinghurst but two. He was the scapegrace of 
the family, and in the end I was the only member of the 
family who would have anything to do with him. But 
I thought it my duty not to lose sight of the prodigal, 
and I helped him again and again when everybody else 
had given him up. He had at one time to leave England 
to escape prosecution for forgery, and during the time 
he was away in Australia, where he was sent, he con- 
tracted an irregular alliance with a woman of the name 
of Nellie Styles. When he came back to England he 
brought her with him, and when he appealed to me for 
help he represented that this woman was his legal wife. 
I saw no reason to doubt this, especially as the woman, 
although a person of no refinement, was a hard-working, 
devoted creature, who would certainly have been an 
ideal wife for a working-man. And it was as an ordinary 
working-man that she first met Harry Darent in Aus- 
IX t 25 ' 


290 


MY CHILD AND L 


tralia. When I first met the woman, she already had 
one child, — a boy.” 

Lady Stephana paused ; the lawyer looked attentive ; 
I sat holding my breath. 

“ In order both to help the parents and to have the 
child brought up as I conceived that a member of our 
family ought to be brought up, I offered to take entire 
charge of the boy. The offer was accepted, not without 
reluctance on the part of the mother ; who was, how- 
ever,” and Lady Stephana turned her head slightly, to 
impress upon me the beauty of Kellie Styles’s conduct 
compared to my own, “ deeply grateful to me for what 
she called my goodness.” 

There was another little pause, which Mr. Boyle 
utilized for the purpose of taking a few notes in a mem- 
orandum-book. Then she went on : 

‘‘ 1 had the boy put in the care of trustworthy peo- 
ple, visited him constantly, — he was only a baby, — and 
kept the mother informed as to his health. At the 
time I believed this boy to be my nephew’s legitimate 
son. 

“ Soon after my nephew’s return to England, where 
he was obliged to live under an assumed name to avoid 
being arrested by the man whose name he had forged, 
who was implacable in his wish to prosecute Harry, 
another child was born, a girl. By this time dissensions 
had arisen between my nephew and the woman, and, in 
a fit of disgust with the poor thing, he acknowledged to 
me that she was not his wife. Kevertheless,” went on 
Lady Stephana, raising her tone a little to denote the 
height of her magnanimity, “I took the part of the 
woman, and thought it my duty to make no difference 
in my treatment of her. She had followed him, loved him, 
clung to him as a wife ; and in my opinion the difference 
in rank between them made it all the more necessary for 
him to treat her well. However,” and into the lady’s 
tone there came all the acidity of which a baulked pro- 
fessional philanthropist is capable, “my nephew had the 
usual morality of a man, and thought nothing of throw- 
ing over the woman who had followed him through the 
world for a girl of whom he knew nothing except that 
she had a pretty face.” 

The lady’s acerbity grew so marked on these last 


MY CHILD AND I. 


291 


words that Mr. Boyle glanced at me as if appealing to 
me not to mind. 

“ I think you know, Mr. Boyle,” went on Lady Stephana, 
with the manner of a person who is strictly en tete-d-tete, 
“ that the girl has since become Mrs. Keen.” 

Mr. Boyle assented hastily. 

“No persuasions, no threats availed ti persuade my 
nephew to go back to what I considered his duty, and 
by marriage with the first woman to repair the wrong 
he had done her. At last the end came : he crowned 
his wickedness by abandoning Nellie for a fresh face. I 
heard this from Nellie herself ; but she either did not 
know or would not tell me that Harry had actually 
married the girl. I was led to believe, and I always did 
believe until lately, that my nephew, when he died, was 
still, legally, a bachelor.” 

“ I told you that he married me ; I remember the very 
words I used to you !” I broke out, passionately, with a 
bitter feeling in my mind, which I really believe to have 
been justified, that Lady Stephana had wilfully shut her 
ears to the truth on that occasion, and had chosen to 
believe that I was not legally Harry’s wife, rather than 
be convinced of the fact. 

The old lady took no notice of the interruption. 

“ You understand perfectly, I am sure, Mr. Boyle,” she 
went on, loftily, to him, “ how natural my mistake was, 
and how it arose.” 

The lawyer was between two fires. On the one hand, 
he had to affect entire confidence in the lady whose in- 
formation was so important ; on the other hand, he did 
not wish to offend me. So he bowed his head hastily, 
with a deprecatory, sidelong glance in my direction, and 
became instantly absorbed in the study of his memo- 
randa. Lady Stephana sailed blandly on : 

“ Of course I still continued my help to the unfortu- 
nate Nellie, and I allowed myself, against my better 
judgment, occasionally to assist my nephew also. After 
the lapse of some months,” she went on, very stiffly, “ he 
wrote to me that he was dying, and commended to my 
care, not the poor woman who was the mother of his 
two children, but the girl for whom he had deserted 
her.” 

“His wife! His wife I” I cried, with repressed ex- 


292 


MY CHILD AND L 


citement. “ I’m sure the words he used were, ‘ My wife 
and my unborn child.’ ” 

Again Lady Stephana paid no attention to my inter- 
ruption : 

‘‘ 1 did what I considered my duty : I called upon the 
girl and I offered to befriend her and her child.” 

Again this was too much for me, and I burst out with, — 
But on what condition. Lady Stephana ? On what 
condition? You wanted me to place myself, a wife, as I 
had always believed myself to be, in the position of a 
fallen woman. You wanted ” 

‘‘ I wanted to do the best I could for you, in the only 
way in which it seemed possible for me to do it,” inter- 
rupted the old lady, calmly. But you rejected my 
overtures, with rudeness, or with what you called ^spirit,’ 
I suppose. I had no right, as I can see, to force myself 
upon you, and I withdrew. I still, however, from a 
sense of duty, kept a watchful eye, without obtruding 
myself, upon you and upon your child when it was born ; 
and when I learnt that it had been abandoned by you ” 

I started up from my chair, breathless with indigna- 
tion. The lawyer, taking advantage of the breathless- 
ness, jumped up too, came over to me, and, laying his 
hand upon my arm, entreated me to listen quietly to 
what she had to say. With great difficulty I obtained 
sufficient command of myself to comply with his request. 
Lady Stephana, who had waited with the utmost calm- 
ness the upshot of the little scene between the lawyer 
and myself, went on calmly with her story. 

“ I found, as I said, that the child had been abandoned, 
and I traced it to the house of a woman in Birmingham, 
who kept a baby-farm. I rescued the poor little thing, 
and put it with its half-brother to be brought up with 
him. From that time,” continued Lady Stephana, with 
some triumph, “ I have been father and mother also to 
those two boys. I have fed them, clothed them, educated 
them, and started them in life. It is not my fault,” and 
for the first time the old lady’s voice faltered, “ that, 
while one of them has never given me any trouble, but 
has always behaved as a dutiful son to me, the other — 
my favourite too, I must acknowledge — has inherited 
qualities which all my care has been unable to eradi- 
cate.” 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


293 


At that moment, when the old lady showed a momen- 
tary sense of humiliation at her failure, I was sorry for 
her. After all, she had behaved generously and well to 
both her nephews, and she had not visited my sins, real 
or supposed, on my son. I rose impulsively, and held 
out my hand to her. 

“ Lady Stephana,” I said, in a humble tone, ‘‘ forgive 
me if 1 have not shown you any gratitude for your 
goodness to my boy. Nobody, and least of all I, would 
ever blame you for the misfortune that he has turned 
out badly.” 

The little old lady looked steadfastly at me, and at 
last I saw in her face a glimpse of real, warm, human 
feeling. She put her limp little hand in mine, and smiled 
sadly, as she slowly shook her head. 

“ You have made a great mistake,” she said, not un- 
kindly. “ I have only just found it out. Your son has 
not turned out badly, Mrs. Keen. The one who has 
turned out badly is my favourite, Harry, the son of 
Harry Darent and Nellie Styles, born five-and-twenty 
years ago. There is not a better boy in England than 
your son, whom I had baptized in the name of Beane^ 

Deane! Beane my son! I staggered back, over- 
whelmed by a thousand conflicting sensations. 

“ You are sure, sure ?” I gasped. “ Deane looks so 
much the elder of the two !” 

That is only because Deane is so much taller than 
Harry, and so much more sedate and grave ; and be- 
cause Harry wears no hair on his face.” 

For a little while I sat stupefied, recalling the steps 
by which I had gradually sunk down into my delusion. 
Then a suspicion crossed my mind. 

“ Harry !” I cried, “ did he know ?” 

Yes. His own mother broke her compact with me, 
some years ago, by revealing herself to him. But Harry 
was ashamed of her, and insisted on her keeping the 
relationship a secret, on pain of never seeing him again.” 

“ And did he know,” I gasped out, overcome with the 
discoveries I was making at every word — “did Harry 
know that — that Deane was my son ?” 

“ Probably. He ferreted among my papers, I know ; 
and he was probably the first to discover that your mar- 
riage with my nephew Harry Dare was a legal one, and 
25 * 


294 


MY CHILD AND L 


that consequently Deane, whom I had always brought 
up as his cousin, was the heir of Lord Wallinghurst.” 

This fact had escaped my notice until that moment. 
Deane, quiet, unassuming Deane, my son Deane, was now 
the holder of the title with which some of my earliest 
memories were associated. All this knowledge was 
coming upon me with bewildering effect. I sighed for 
silence, for seclusion, for air. 

Mr. Boyle saw hat I looked worn-out, excited, and ill, 
and he took compassion on me. 

“We are keeping you a long time, when you must be 
tired with your journey, Mrs. Keen,” said he. “ If I 
may come round to your house to-morrow morning, to 
get some little technical matters settled with you, to 
enable your son to come by his own with the more ease, 
we can let you go home now.” 

Indeed it was evident that my presence, if I remained, 
would soon become rather an embarrassment than an aid 
to anything. 

So I took leave of Lady Stephana, who was looking at 
me rather more kindly than at the opening of the inter- 
view, and allowed Mr. Boyle to escort me to the front 
door. Here, however, another shock awaited me. I 
had forgotten who was waiting for me, and, when I saw 
Deane’s tall figure at the bottom of the steps, I fell into 
a paroxysm of trembling which frightened poor Mr. 
Boyle. 

Deane, on his side, was nearly as much agitated as I. 
He rushed up the steps to my side, and, drawing my 
hand tenderly through his arm, whispered, — 

“ Is it true — tell me only that — is it true that you are 
— my — mother ?” 

“ Yes,” I faltered, “ it is true that you — are — my — son.” 

I received his passionate kiss on my forehead ; I re- 
turned it. 

But not all Deane’s good qualities, not all Harry’s bad 
ones, sufficed to prevent my feeling that this, my true 
son, my newly-found child, was a usurper, and that my 
heart belonged, for good and for ever, to the scapegrace 
for whom and by whom I had suffered so much. 


MY CHILD AND L 


295 


CHAPTER XL. 

Both Deane and I were rather silent as we drove 
along towards Kerr Street. At last I asked him what it 
was which had made him so suddenly suspect my rela- 
tionship to him. 

He said it was the behaviour of Kellie Styles when 
she found that Harry had given her the slip and gone 
away with me. She had, it seemed, found lying about 
the telegram which Sanders had sent, informing Harry 
that I was going to Paris, and had rightly concluded 
that he had followed me. She had then, in her anger, 
betrayed herself so far as to set Deane thinking that she 
must be Harry’s mother, and not, as she and Harry had 
both assured him, his own. What could it be but ma- 
ternal love and jealousy which induced Kellie to start 
for Paris in pursuit ? 

And if Harry were not my son, but hers, where was 
my son? At this point had come the inevitable sus- 
picion that it must be himself; and Deane declared that 
the feeling he had always had for me since our first 
meeting in the grounds of The Limes had made it easy 
for him to believe in his relationship to me. 

I asked him why Harry had declared his own mother 
to be Deane’s, since Lady Stephana, on her return to 
England, would infallibly have enlightened him on this 
point. Deane thought that Harry knew he was playing 
a desperate game, which must come to an end with his 
protectress’s return ; and in the mean time Kellie, who 
was devoted to him, was a useful ally whom it was 
necessary to keep near. By declaring herself to be 
Deane’s mother, she was able to serve her own son as 
well as if she had confessed to being his. 

After another long pause, I said to him, — 

‘‘ Do you know the difference this will make to your 
prospects, Deane?” 

“ Yes,” said he, quietly. “ If it all turns out all right, 
I suppose it will.” 


296 


MY CHILD AND L 


And — and what about — Meg ?” 

Don’t tell her anything,” said he, quickly. 

By this time we had reached my house. Meg herself 
peeped out between the curtains of the dining-room 
window as the hansom stopped. 

“ Who was that with you, mamma ?” she asked, curi- 
ously, when I had dismissed Deane and entered the 
house. 

And then she suddenly perceived that I was much 
agitated, and refrained from teasing me with further 
questions. 

I was very reticent that night, and retired to rest 
without having uttered a word concerning my momentous 
interview with Mr. Boyle either to Meg or to Burgess. 
Woman as I was, I could keep my secret better than my 
newly-found son himself could. 

On the following morning Deane called. He was an- 
nounced before I, resting after my fatigues, was ready 
to see him. 

“ You go, Meg,” said I to the girl, who had come up in 
the wake of the maid who had brought the message, 
“and I will be down in five minutes.” 

Meg dutifully disappeared, but I did not hurry myself, 
having an idea that, even if I were five-and-twenty 
minutes instead of five in finishing my toilette, I should 
not be missed. 

Meg, who left the room with leisurely feet and an air 
of unconcern, presented herself in the drawing-room 
wearing an appearance of coldness and dignity. On the 
last occasion of her meeting Deane, he had somewhat 
atoned for what she considered his scandalous frigidity 
on the omnibus ; but still he could not be considered to 
have shown a very coming-on disposition, and Meg began 
to despair of making him confess the feelings which she 
was nevertheless sure that he entertained for her. She 
had half resolved upon what she could not help acknowl- 
edging was a very bold stroke, and this half resolution 
made her seem more constrained than usual. 

Deane, on the other hand, as she noticed at once, came 
forward less slowly and less bashfully than was his wont. 
His first inquiries were for me, and, by the young girl’s 
manner in answering, he perceived that I had respected 
his wish, and told her nothing of the new development 


MT CHILD AND 1. 


297 


of affairs. When Meg had assured him that I was well 
and that I should be down to see him myself in a few 
minutes, there was a pause. 

‘‘ You are back again at Somerset House now ?” said 
Meg, presently, for want of something to say. 

“I ought to be, but I have got a day off, to come 
here.” 

“ To see mamma ?” 

“ Partly.” 

‘‘ And what is the other part ?” 

“ To see some one else.” 

“ Indeed!” 

Another pause. 

“ I — I — I wanted to tell you, Miss Keen,” stammered 
Deane, who began to grow very red and very unhappy- 
looking, “ that I am going to leave Somerset House alto- 
gether.” 

“ You are going abroad, as you thought of doing ?” 

‘‘ Perhaps.” 

‘‘Only perhaps? What does it depend on? Or is 
that a secret ?” 

“ It is no secret. It depends on — a flirt I” 

“Mr. Carey I” 

“ Hot ‘ Mr. Carey I have been masquerading under 
an assumed name. I have found out something about 
myself at last. I have discovered my mother.” 

“ Yes, so I heard.” 

“ You heard about her ?” 

“ Yes. Mamma met her.” 

“ And what did you think ?” 

“ Well, I don’t quite like to say.” 

“ But I ask you to tell me frankly, quite frankly, just 
the thoughts that came into your mind.” 

“Well, I was surprised, I couldn’t help it, to hear that 
— that she was that — that sort of person. I thought it 
was very hard upon you to find it out, and — and I thought 
you behaved beautifully in not seeming to mind.” 

“ That she was not a lady ? I did mind, though !” 

A pause. 

“ If I were ever to want to marry, my wife would mind, 
wouldn’t she ?” 

“ But I thought you had made up your mind that a 
bachelor’s was the life for you 1” 


298 


MY CHILD AND /. 


“ Still I should like you to answer my question.” 

“ Well, all those things depend upon the sort of woman 
you marry, don’t they ?” 

“ If I were to marry a flirt, for instance ?” 

Meg hesitated between half-hearted anger and whole- 
hearted pleasure at the turn the talk was taking. As 
she paused and considered her answer, she began to play 
with a book she had been carrying ; and, as she turned 
over the leaves, a paper fell out on the floor. It fluttered 
to Deane’s feet, and, perceiving this, Meg lost her pres- 
ence of mind so much as to utter a cry of confusion and 
alarm as he stooped to pick it up. 

For it was the wild letter written by Deane during his 
illness. 

Seeing the confusion into which this trifling incident 
had thrown her, Deane involuntarily glanced at the 
document as he was handing it back to her ; and he could 
not fail to be struck by the circumstance that the few 
hugely-scrawled, straggling words upon which his eyes 
fell were in his own handwriting. 

‘‘Why!” he exclaimed, and stopped. 

Meg held out her hand for the paper, and then, without 
waiting to take it, turned away and walked to the fire. 
Presently Deane followed her. 

“ Miss Keen,” he said, in an agitated voice, “ I could 
not help seeing as I picked up this paper that — that ” 

Meg turned and snatched away the paper. 

“ I could not help seeing my own handwriting,” he 
went on, humbly but with evident anxiety. “ Won’t you 
please let me look at it?” 

Meg hesitated; then, without looking at him, she 
quietly gave him the paper back again. He read it 
through, and then the girl listened, w'ondering what 
would happen next. 

“ Who gave you this, Meg ?” (^Meg, not Miss Keen) he 
asked. 

“ Your mother,” she answered, in a stifled voice. 

“ Oh I the woman who ” 

He stopped. Meg went on : 

“ She wanted me to come and see you — when you were 
ill.” 

“ Wanted you to come and see me ! Oh,” said Deane, 
decidedly, “ that was some plot of Harry's.” 


MY CHILD AND L 


299 


“ So mamma thought, I believe, for she wouldn’t let me 
go!” 

“ But — but you would have gone ! You would, Meg ?” 

No answer, but an almost impereeptible shrug of the 
little shoulders. Then Meg heard a decided voice in her 
ear : 

“ Meg, I shall marry you !” 

Oh, oh ! will you?” 

“ Yes. And, as for my mother, you must put up with 
her.” 

By this time he had his arm round her waist ; the next 
moment, without any warning of her somewhat abrupt 
change of front, Meg offered her face to be kissed. 

Of course I could not tell the most convenient moment 
for my entrance ; it happened to be this most interesting 
one. As he heard the door open, Deane cried, — 

“ Here comes my mother herself I” 

Meg, surprised, started back. But, as I came in, she 
said, — 

“ Why, no, it’s mamma.” 

That’s what I said,” persisted Deane. 

And, to Meg’s astonishment, he came up to me, and 
kissed me on both cheeks. But the girl was too bright- 
witted to be puzzled long. 

“I think I begin to understand,” said she, slowly. 
“ But then,” and she turned to Deane rather shyly, “who 
are you?” 

“Mr. Boyle, whom I have already seen this morning, 
says that I am Lord Wallinghurst !” 

“Then I shall be ” began Meg, merrily, clasping 

her hands. 

“Your ladyship,” said Deane, bowing. “But you 
ought not to think of such a trifle as that, in the first 
blush of your engagement.” 

“ What better can you expect from a flirt ?” asked the 
girl, gaily. 

She was, indeed, delighted at her prospective elevation, 
and she showed her pleasure ingenuously, like the honest 
little being she was. 

The happiness of the lovers, although it was a pleasant 
sight to me, could not make me forget the danger which 
hung over Harry. I did not have any interview with 
him until after the inquiry before the magistrates was 


300 


MY CHILD AND L 


over. At this inquiry I had to appear as a witness ; but 
the solicitor whom Mr. Boyle, not caring to undertake 
such business himself, had chosen for the conduct of 
Harry’s defence, was a clever, experienced man, who 
filled me with hopes that he would be able to obtain a 
verdict of manslaughter only. This was, of course, as 
much as we could hope for. He founded these hopes 
chiefly on the fact that the revolver found in the room 
proved to be, not Harry’s, but one which Mr. Keen had 
been known to keep in a drawer of his writing-table. 
Upon this fact the solicitor had founded the theory that 
Mr. Keen, exasperated with Harry’s conduct in coming 
to him at all, had threatened the young man with the 
revolver; that Harry had tried to snatch the weapon 
from him in self-defence, and that the discharge of it 
was accidental. I had myself neither seen nor heard 
anything inconsistent with this theory. Mr. Keen was 
known to be a man of violent temper, who entertained 
a strong aversion to Harry ; while the actual witness to 
the firing of the shot had not been near enough to swear 
that this was not what actually occurred. 

The next day Harry was allowed to see me. To my 
amazement, he did not seem very crest-fallen, treated 
me in much the same manner as before, and expressed 
confident hopes of the result of the trial. I had hoped 
to find him in a repentant or at least a remorseful mood, 
but in this I was disappointed. I am afraid that Bur- 
gess’s disgust at what he called Harry’s brazen insolence 
was not unfounded. He confessed to me frankly that, 
as soon as I made the initial mistake of supposing him 
to be my son, he, knowing very well that I was Deane’s 
mother and not his, and knowing also that he could only 
hope to keep up the deception during Lady Stephana’s 
absence abroad, had conceived the idea of making hay 
while the sun shone, of fooling me to the top of my bent, 
satisfied that when the exposure came I should be too 
much ashamed of my mistake to make the facts generally 
known. 

Harry, who was evidently proud of his successful 
plotting, went on to tell me what a piece of luck it had 
seemed to him when Lord Wallinghurst’s death put 
another power into his ready hands. He told me that 
he had instantly conceived the idea of making a good 


Mr CHILD AND L 


301 


marriage on the strength of his supposed pretensions to 
the earldom, and then of beating a retreat to the Con- 
tinent when, as he expressed it, “ the game was up.” He 
did not even try to disguise the fact that he would then 
have used his hold on his rich wife as a means of sub- 
sistence. Meg had been his first choice, and, failing her, 
he had fallen back on Ethel Everett, whose open pref- 
erence made her an easy prey. 

He did not deny, even now, that he had taken positive 
pleasure in these intrigues, and that the only thing that 
had marred his enjoyment of them had been the appear- 
ance of his own mother, whose jealousy of me had more 
than once threatened his plans with shipwreck, and was 
at last the actual means of bringing about his arrest. 
For the police had gone to his lodgings, on the evening 
when he went to Paris with me ; they watched the house, 
and, on seeing her leave it, they followed her, went to 
Paris by the same trains and boat, and were thus enabled 
to lay their hands upon him just as he was starting with 
me for Havre. 

Only one redeeming quality, or what seemed to me a 
redeeming quality, was shown by Harry at this inter- 
view : his affection for me, cruelly as he had deceived 
me, wickedly as he had taken advantage of his hold 
upon me, was real, undoubtedly real. He expressed 
again and again his wish that I had been really his 
mother, or even failing that, that I had gone on believ- 
ing myself to be so. There was now absolutely nothing 
to gain by any pretence of affection, and not I alone, 
but the solicitor who conducted his case and the woman 
who was really his mother were struck by the reality 
of his feeling for me. It had not, indeed, been strong 
enough to exercise any beneficial effect on his morals ; 
but, such as it was, it was genuine, and I, unable to lose 
my interest in him, was touched by it. 

When the trial came off, I gave my evidence as if in 
a dream. His case was very ably conducted ; the pros- 
ecution was not a malignant one. After a long delibera- 
tion, Harry was found guilty of manslaughter, and was 
condemned by the judge to penal servitude for ten years. 

I fainted on hearing the sentence, notwithstanding 
the fact that it was, in the circumstances, a merciful one. 

It is now five years since Harry was convicted, and 
26 


302 


MY CHILD AND 1. 


during those five years I have been happy in the society 
of my son Deane and of my daughter Meg, and of their 
two little children. 

But, try as I may, I cannot lose the feeling that there 
is one child nearer to me than these, and that the scape- 
grace who will probably still have some exciting moments 
in store for me, when the term of his imprisonment is 
over, will fill my thoughts to the end, as he did on the 
first day when he thrilled my heart by calling me 
Mother I” 




A LIST OF BOOKS 


SELECTED FROM THE 


Catalogue 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 


Complete Catalogue Sent on Application. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY’S FICTION. 



N BOTH SIDES, By Frances 

Baylor. i2mo. Cloth, ;^i.25. 


Courtenay 


“ No such faithful, candid, kindly, brilliant, and incisive presenta- 
tion of English and American types has before been achieved. The 
wit of the story is considerable. It is written brilliantly, yet not 
flimsily. It is the best international novel that either side has hitherto 
produced. It is written by an American woman who really knows 
both countries, and who has shown that she possesses powers which 
ought to put her in the front rank of fiction.” — New York Tribune, 



EHIND THE BLUE RIDGE. By 

Courtenay Baylor. i2mo. Cloth, ^>1.25. 


Frances 


“It is lightened through and through by humor as subtle and 
spontaneous as any that ever brightened the dark pages of life history, 
and is warmed by that keen sympathy and love for human nature 
which transfigures and ennobles everything it touches.” — Chicago 
Tribune. 


^ SHOCKING EXAMPLE. By Frances 

Courtenay Baylor. i2mo. Cloth, $ 1 . 2 $. 

“ An entertaining collection of stories by a clever writer who does 
not adhere to any single line of scenes, incidents, or characters. Few 
of our women writers have ventured upon so wide a range of character 
or been more successful.” — New York Herald, 

“Miss Baylor is one of the best and brightest of American short 
story writers.” — Boston Transcript, 


-pAR IN THE FOREST, By S. Weir Mitchell, 

author of ‘‘ Hepzibah Guinness,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 


“ Dr. Mitchell shows in this, as in his other novels, a keen knowl- 
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situations, a hearty recognition of manliness in all its phases, and a 
thorough understanding of the intricacies of the feminine mind. It is 
a capital novel.” — Boston Beacon. 


Philadelphia; J. B. Lippincott Company, 7 15-7 17 Market St. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY’S FICTION. 



Ji OKEN CH ORDS. By Mrs. George McClel- 

LAN (Harford Fleming), author of “ A Carpet Knight,” and 
‘‘Cupid and the Sphinx.” i2mo. Cloth. 373 pages. 
^1.25. Paper covers, 50 cents. 


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was a general recognition of her marked literary ability. Her ‘ A 
Carpet Knight,’ published a few years later, showed an improvement 
in the technique and skill in plot ; and her latest volume is a still 
more artistic work. It only misses being a great novel, and is certainly 
one of the best of the year .” — Boston Traveller. 


A 


LEAFLESS SEEING, By Ossip Schubin, 

author of “ O Thou, My Austria !” “ Erlach Court,” 


“ Countess Erika’s Apprenticeship,” etc. Translated from 
the German by Mary J. Safford. i2mo. Cloth, ^1.25. 


“ Our author treats of her subjects with an ease and felicity which 
give them life and reality, and we gladly glide with her through the 
gilded saloons of the Parisian and Viennese aristocracy, or amid the 
dimmer splendors of Roman and Venetian palaces, on intimate terms 
with that society of which Motley wrote that ‘ You must be intimate 
with the Pharaohs or stay at home 1 ’ For it is among the fashions 
and fortunes, the loves, hates, and humors of one class that Ossip 
Schubin seeks her themes, and a very pleasant society it is .” — London 
Athencsum. 



RIDDLE OF LUCK. By Mary E. Stone, 

author of “A Fair Plebeian,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.2'^. 


“ A genuinely entertaining story. The hero is a disappointed 
litterateur, who turns tramp. In his wanderings he encounters a 
ghost, who agrees to help him to fame and fortune if he will give 
him his body six months in the year. The bargain is struck, the 
tramp writes under the spirit’s direction, and, of course, finds a pub- 
lisher. Various complications arise from the joint partnership, and an 
unblushing attempt is made to cheat the poor ghost. ‘The Riddle 
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OUND WANTING, ' By Mrs. Alexander, 

author of ‘‘ For His Sake,” “ The Wooing O’t,” etc. i2mo. 
Cloth, ^i.oo. 


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esteem, and this is something to be thankful for. There are two 
women in ‘ Found Wanting either one would pose acceptably as 
heroine. This is a good story.” — Philadelphia Public Ledger, 


NOVELS BY AMfeLIE RIVES. 

DARBARA DERING. A Sequel to “The Quick 

or the Dead?^^ l2mo. Cloth, ^^1.25. Paper, 50 cents. 

“Miss Rives has treated the plot of her story with such wonderful 
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and reality of beings of this world, moved by the same motives and 
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'J^HE QUICK OR THE DEAD? By Amalie 
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T 


HE WITNESS OF THE SUN, By Amalie 

Rives. i2mo. Cloth, ^i.oo. 


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TORIES BY MRS. H. LOVETT CAMERON. 

i2ino. Cloth, j$i.oo. Paper, 50 cents per volume. 


A Sister’s Sin. A Daughter’s Heart. 

Jack’s Secret. 

“ A wide circle of admirers always welcome a new work by this 
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marvellously well the daily social life of the English people.” — 

St, Louis Republic, 

Bound only in cloth, $i.oo per volume. 

A Lost Wife. The Cost of a Lie. 

This Wicked World. A Devout Lover. 

A Life’s Mistake. Worth Winning. 

Vera Neville. Pure Gold. 

In a Grass Country. 

“ Mrs. Cameron’s numerous efforts in the line of fiction have won 
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her to put before the reading public stories that are full of interest 
and pure in tone.” — Harrisburg Telegraph, 


n^AKEN BY SIEGE. i2mo. Cloth, ^1.25. 

“A graphic and very interesting anonymous story of a 
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shows how, by pluck, brains, and luck, a new man may sometimes 
rise rapidly to the highest rank in journalism, distancing the veterans. 
The author has unusual ability as a writer of fiction.” — Albany 
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M 


Y FLIRTATIONS, By Margaret Wynman, 
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some are delightfully daring and absolutely true. Mr. J. Bernard 
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F 


OES IN AMBUSH, By Captain Charles 
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in Arizona just after the civil war.” — N. Y, Times, 


OTHER NOVELS BY CAPT. KING. 

The Colonel’s Daughter. i2mo. Cloth. Illustrated. ^1.25. 
Marian’s Faith. i2mo. Cloth. Illustrated. ^1.25. 

Captain Blake. i2mo. Cloth. Illustrated. ;^i.25. 

The Colonel’s Christmas Dinner. i2mo. Cloth. ^^11.25. 
Kitty’s Conquest. i2mo. Cloth, ^i.oo. 

Starlight Ranch, AND Other Stories. i2mo. Cloth, ^i.oo. 
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Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 7 15-7 17 Market St. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY’S FICTION. 
OVELS BY MISS CAREY. 



But Men Must Work. 

Sir Godfrey’s Granddaughters. 
Mary St. John. 

Heriot’s Choice. 

l2mo. Paper, 50 cents. Cloth, ;^i.oo. 
The Search for Basil Lyndhurst. 


Wooed and Married. 
Nellie’s Memories. 
Queenie’s Whim. 

Not Like Other Girls. 
Wee Wifie. 


Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. 
For Lilias. 

Robert Ord’s Atonement. 
Uncle Max. 

Only the Governess. 


Bound only in cloth, ;^i.oo. 


“ Miss Rosa Nouchette Carey has achieved an enviable reputation 
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or distinctly religious in character .” — Boston Herald. 


DIPL OMA TS DIAR Y. By Julien Gordon. 



New Edition in paper covers. i2mo. 50 cents. 


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played, the people who pass over it, the customs and manners, — these 
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within the diplomatic circle .” — New York Tribune, 

“ The two characters that figure in the foreground of this story 
are alive ; we can hear them speak ; we see them ; we should recognize 
them in the street. That is the right artist’s touch, and he who pos- 
sesses it can at will make us commune and sympathize with other 
human beings, no matter what their social status or what the stage- 
setting of their lives ." — New York Sun. 


Also bound in cloth, ^>1.00. 

By the same author : 

A Successful Man. 

Vampires and Mademoiselle RisiDA. 
l2mo. Cloth, $1.00 each. 


Philadelphia; J. B. Lippincott Company, 7 15-7 17 Market St. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY’S FICTION 


M 


RS. A. Z. WISTER^S TRANSLATIONS 

FROM THE German. 


Countess Erika's Apprenticeship. By Ossip Schubin 

** O Thou, My Austria 1" By Ossip Schubin x.25 

Erlach Court. By Ossip Schubin x.25 

The Alpine Fay. By E. Werner x.25 

The Owl's Nest. By E. Marlitt x.25 

Picked Up in the Streets. By H. Schobert x.25 

Saint Michael. By E. Werner x.25 

Violetta. By Ursula Zoge von Manteufel 1.25 

The Eichhoffs. By Moritz von Reichenbach x.50 

A New Race. By Gola Raimund x.25 

Castle Hohenwald. By Adolph Streckfuss 1.50 

Margarethe. By E. Juncker x.50 

Too Rich. By Adolph Streckfuss x.50 

A Family Feud. By Ludwig Harder 1.25 

The Green Gate. By Ernst Wichert x.50 

Only a Girl. By Wilhelmine von Hillern x.50 

Why Did He Not Die? By Ad. von Volckhauser x.50 

The Lady with the Rubies. By E. Marlitt 1.25 

Vain Forebodings. By E. Oswald x.25 

A Penniless Girl. By W. Heimburg x.25 

Quicksands. By Adolph Streckfuss 1.50 

Banned and Blessed. By E. Werner x.50 

A Noble Name. By Clare von Gliimer x.50 

From Hand to Hand. By Golo Raimund x.50 

Severa. By E. Hartner 1.50 

Hulda. By Fanny Lewald x.50 

The Bailiff's Maid. By E. Marlitt 1.25 

In the Schillingscourt. By E. Marlitt z.50 

Countess Gisela. By E. Marlitt x.50 

At the Councillor's. By E. Marlitt 1,50 

The Second Wife. By E. Marlitt x.50 

The Old Mam'selle's Secret. By E. Marlitt x.50 

Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt x.50 

The Little Moorland Princess. By E. Marlitt x.50 


i2mo. Attractively bound in cloth. Thirty-four volumes in 
twenty-three. Sold dnly in sets. $32. ys per set. 


“ Mrs. A. L. Wister, through her many translations of novels from 
the German, has established a reputation of the highest order for 
literary judgment, and for a long time her name upon the title-page 
of such a translation has been a sufficient guarantee to the lovers of 
fiction of a pure and elevating character, that the novel would be a 
cherished home favorite. This faith in Mrs. Wister is fully justified 
by the fact that among her more than thirty translations that have 
been published by Lippincott’s there has not been a single disappoint- 
ment. And to the exquisite judgment of selection is to be added the 
rare excellence of her translations, which has commanded the 
admiration of literary and linguistic scholars .” — Boston HomeyournaL 


Philadelphia ; J. B. Lippincott Company, 7 15-7 17 Market St. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY’S FICTION. 



“ One of the brightest and prettiest of this writer’s books. The 
plot is more elaborate than is usual, and is developed with great 
cleverness. The humor is bright, the pathos is delicate, and the 
animated style of the narrative makes the story charming reading. 
The heroine is an admirable study, and, on the whole, one of the 
most thoughtful and careful of its author’s creations .” — Washington 
Tribune. 

Other Stories by “ The Duchess.’^ 

A Little Irish Girl, Lady Patty. 

Bound in Paper, 50 cents each. Cloth, $ 1 . 00 . 


Phyllis. 

Molly Bawn. 

Airy Fairy Lilian. 
Beauty’s Daughters. 
Faith and Unfaith. 
Doris. 

“O Tender Dolores.” 

A Maiden all Forlorn. 
In Durance Vile. 

The Duchess. 

Marvel. 

Jerry, and other Stories. 


A Life’s Remorse. 

Mrs. Geoffrey. 

Portia. 

LOys, Lord Berresford, and other 
Stories. 

Rossmoyne. 

A Mental Struggle. 

Lady Valworth’s Diamonds. 
Lady Branksmere. 

A Modern Circe. 

The Honourable Mrs. Vereker. 
Under-Currents. 


i2mo. Bound only in cloth, 75 cents. 


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most fascinating novelists of the day. The stories written by her are 
the airiest, lightest, and brightest imaginable, full of wit, spirit, and 
gayety,but contain, nevertheless, touches of the most exquisite pathos. 
There is something good in all of them .” — London Academy. 

“ There is no author in fiction to compare with * The Duchess,’ 
and each of her novels reaches thousands of readers .” — Boston Globe. 


Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 7 i 5 “ 7 i 7 Market St. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY’S FICTION 


GREAT SELF. By Marion Harland, 

^ author of “ Alone,” ‘‘ True as Steel,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, 
^1.25. 

“ It calls up the days when the ladies flashed in brocades and 
swelled in hoops; when the men were autocrats and discussed 
Shakespeare and Mr. Pope ; a time that even Thackeray, seeing the 
picturesque opportunities which it afforded the novelist, did not disdain 
to deal with, and which will always be treasured by the lovers of the 
old and the picturesque. Some of the author’s pages have about 
them the fragrance that scents a room when some antique cabinet 
has been opened, and there steals out the perfume of thyme and 
lavender placed there by a hand that has long ago mouldered into 
dust .” — Philadelphia Record. 



OHN GRAY, A Kentucky tale of the olden 
time. By James Lane Allen, author of Flute and 
Violin,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, ;J 5 i.oo. . 


“The unhappy love experience which forms the thread of the 
tale is but a chapter out of the life of almost any young man. And 
it is not dramatically told, either. Yet there is an intangible some- 
thing in the book that now and then touches the spring of tears when 
the reader is least expecting it. The central character, John Gray, is 
as noble a specimen of young manhood as any idealist could create, 
yet always and everywhere he is entirely natural and human.” — 
Boston journal. 


MAN OF FEELING, By Henry Mac- 

KENZiE. Illustrated by William Cubitt Cooke. i6mo. 

Cloth, uncut, ^i.oo; Large paper, buckram, $ 3 . 00 , 

“ While other works are extolled, admired, and reviewed, those of 
Mackenzie will be loved and wept over. They cannot be out of 
date till the dreams of young imagination shall vanish and the deepest 
sympathies of love and hope be stilled forever. The tender pleasure 
which * The Man of Feeling’ excites is wholly without alloy. Its 
hero is the most beautiful personification of gentleness, patience, and 
meek sufferings which the heart can conceive .” — London Saturday 
Review. 


Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 715-717 Market St. 


Through Colonial Doorways 


A beautiful little volume of 200 pages. 

By ANNE HOLLINGSWORTH WHARTON. 


A tribute to the awakened interest in colonial affairs. With fron- 
tispiece illustration and other decorations in the text. 

Fourth Edition. i2nio. Cloth, $1.25. 



** Miss Wharton's pictures are from models instinct with unchanging human 
nature. They are vivid, accurate, and withal so fascinating that one closes the 
volume with a sense of half regret at finding himself in the nineteenth century." 
— Philadelphia Bulletin. 

" The author of this book has let in light on colonial life in a most agree- 
able manner. It was a book well worth writing, and it is as well worth read- 
ing." — New York Times. 


A RIDDLE OF LUCK. 

By MARY E. STONE, 

AxattLor of "A. Fair Flebelan," eto. 

i2ino. Cloth, $1.25. 


** A mysterious tale, fear-provoking as one of Poe's romances. A tramp, 
who has arrived at the end of his resources, rents his body for six months of the 
year to an uneasy spirit who wanders about in search of an earthly tenement. 
Various complications arise from the joint partnership, and an unblushing at- 
tempt is made to cheat the poor ghost. In the end all goes well with all con- 
cerned. " The Riddle of Luck” is worth guessing.” — Philadelphia Ledger. 

For sale by all Booksellers , or will be sent by the Publishers ^ free 0/ ex- 
pense, on receipt 0/ price. 

J. B. Lippincott Company, Publishers, 

715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 




EDITION OF 1893. 


REVISED AND ENLARCEP. 



LIPPINCOTT’S 

PRONOUNCING 


GAZETTEER 


OF THE WORLD. 


Containing notices of over 125,000 places. 
New revised edition amplified by a series of 
statistical tables, embodying the most recent census returns. Impe- 
rial 8vo. Nearly 3,000 pages. Sheep binding, §12.00. Half 
morocco, §15.00. With Patent Index, 75 cents additional. 


AN INVALUABLE WORK 


FOR THE 


Student, 

Teacher, 

Editor, 

Lawyer, 

Merchant, 

Library, 


and all who desire au- 
thentic information con- 
cerning their own and 
other countries. 


bec ause 

It is one of the indispensable auxil- 
iaries to useful knowledge. 

It gives the most recent and reli- 
able information regarding all por^ 
tions of the globe. 

It gives the different spellings of 
geographical names whenever there is 
more than one mode of spelling them. 

It is impossible to procure the same 
variety of information concerning 
geographical matters in any other 
single volume. 

It gives not only the popular name, 
but also the post-office name and the 
name of the railroad station when- 
ever they differ. 

It is the best work of its kind extant. 


FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. 


J 


B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 


715 and 7i|gM||^^St., Philadelphia, Pa. 





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